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TWim SM^^SSEBILlll gEIH-SSJAiaiS: 



THE 

WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 



WITH 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



AND 



CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 



TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 



SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 
OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BY JAMES gUR^IE, M. D. 



., — ^' T-p — ^_, I ' ' J -* ^ h — ■; — " i^— ,, • 

A NEW EDITION— FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 
FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE, 

WITH MANY ADDITIONAL POEMS AND SONGS, AND AN 
ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. 



PHILADELPHIA : 



PUBLISHED BY JOHN L O C K E N, 

No. 311 MARKET STREET. 

1849. 



PniVed b^.T. K. A P. G.CoUms.r. 



i)ie)©i^^s>SEi©^& i5)s©®©iE 



OP 



THE AUTHOR. 



ROBERT BURNS was born on the 29th dav of 
.anuary, 1759, in a small house about two miles from 
the town of Ayr in Scotland. The family name, which 
»he poet modernized into Burns, was originally Bumes 
8r Burness. His father, William, appears to have 
Deen early inured to poverty and hardships, which he 
bore with pious resignation, and endeavoured to alle- 
viate by industry and economy. After various at- 
tempts to gain a livelihood, he took a lease of seven 
acres of land, with a view of commencing nurseryman 
and public gardener ; and having built a house upon it 
with his own hands (an instance of patient ingenuity 
Dy no means uncommon among his countrymen in 
humble hfe,) he married, December 1757, Agnes 
Brown.* The first fruit of his marriage was Robert, 
the subject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent to a school, where 
he made considerable proficiency in reading and wri- 
ting, and where he discovered an inclination for books 
not very common at so early an age. About the age of 
thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the parish school 
ofDalrymple, where he increased his acquaintance 
with English Grammar, and gained some Ifnowledge 
uf the French. Latin was also recommended to him ; 
uut he did not make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, was em- 
ployed on his father's farm, which, in spite of much 
industry, became so unproductive as to involve the 
family in great distress. His father having taken 
another farm, the speculation was yet more fatal, and 
involved his affairs in complete ruin. He died, Feb. 13 
1784, leaving behind him the character of a good and 
wise man, and an affectionate father, who, under all 
his misfortunes, struggled to procure his children an 
excellent education ; and endeavoured, both by pre- 
cept and example to form their minds to religion and 
virtue. 

It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth year of 
nis age, that Robert first "committed the sin of rhyme." 
Having formed a boyish aftection for a female who was 
his companion in the toils of the field, he composed a 
song, which, however extraordinary from one at his 
age, and in his circumstances, is far inferior to any of 
his subsequent performances. He was at this time 
" an ungainly, awkward boy," unacquainted with the 
world, but who occasionally'had picked up some no- 
tions of history, literature, and criticism, from the few 
books within his reach. These he informs us, were 
Salmon's and Guthrie's Geogi-aphical Grammars, the 
Spectator, Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
TuU and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's 
Essays on the Human understanding, Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Di- 
rectory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, a select 
Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Medita- 

* This excellent woman is still living in the family of 
tor son Gilbert. ( May, 1813.> 



lions. Of this motley assemblage, it may readily bo 
supposed, that some would be studied, and some read 
superficially. There is reason to think, however, tha' 
he perused the works of the poets with such attention 
as, assisted by his natural vigorous capacity, soon di- 
rected his taste, and enabled him to discriminate teu- 
derness and sublimity from affectation and bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the .wenty- 
fourth year of Robert's age, he made no considerable 
literary improvement. His accessions of knowledge, 
or opportunities of reading, could not be frequent, but 
no external circumstances could prevent the innata 
peculiarites of his character from displaying themselves 
He was distinguished by a vigorous understanding, 
and an untameable spirit. His resentments were quick 
and, although not durable, expressed with a volubiU- 
ty of indignation which could not but silence and over- 
whelm his humble and illiterate associates ; while the 
occasional effusions of his muse on temporary subjecta 
which were handed about in manuscript, raised him 
to a local superiority that seemed the earnest of a 
more extended fame. His first motive to compose ver- 
ses, as has been already noticed, was his early and 
warm attachment to the fair sex. His favourites wera 
in the humblest walks of life ; but during his posses- 
sion, he elevated them to Laurus and Saccharissas. 
His attachments, however, were of the purer kind, 
and his constant theme the happiness of the married 
state ; to obtain a suitable provision for wliich, he en- 
gaged in partnership with a flax-dresser, hoping, pro- 
bably, to attain by degrees the rank of a manufactory. 
But this speculation was attended with very little 8UC« 
cess, and was finally ended by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a farm in conjunction 
with his brother, with the honourable view of provi- 
ding for their large and orphan family. But here, loo, 
he was doomed to be unfortunate, although, in hi* 
brother Gilbert, he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, 
a man of uncommon powers both of thought and ex. 
pression. 

During his residence on this farm he formed a con- 
nexion with a young woman, the consequences of which 
could not be long concealed. In this dilemma, the 
imprudent couple agreed to make a legal acknowl- 
edgment of a private marriage, and projected that 
she should remain with her father, while he was to go 
to Jamaica " to push his fortune." This proceeding 
however romantic it may appear, would have rescued 
the lady's character, according to the laws of Scotland 
but it did not satisfy her father, who insisted on hav- 
ing all the written documents respecting the marriage 
cancelled, and by this unfeeling measure, he intended 
that it should be rendered void. Divorced now from 
all he held dear in the world, he had no resource but 
in his projected voyage to Jamaica, which was preven- 
ted by one of those circumstances that in common 
cases, might pass without observation, but which even- 
tually laid the foundation of his future fame. Foi 
once, his pocerty stood his fvieud. Had he been jn9 



IV 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



•vided with money to pay for his passage to Jamaica, 
he niighi have set sail, and been forgotten. But he 
•was destitute of every necessary for the voyage, and 
was therefore advised to raise a sura of money by pub- 
lishing his poems in the way of subscription. They 
were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, in the year 
17bb, inasmall volume, which was encouraged by sub- 
scriptions for about 350 copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what eager ad- 
nuration these poems were every where received. Old 
and young, high and low, learned and ignorant, all were 
alike' delighted. Such transports would naturally find 
tlieir way into the bosom of the author, especially when 
he found that, instead of the necessity of flying from his 
native land, he was now encouraged to go to Edinburgh 
and superintend the publication ofa second edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon introduced into the 
company and received the homage of men of literature, 
rank, and taste : and his appearance and behaviour at 
this time, as they exceeded all expectation, heiglitened 
and kept up the curiosity which his works had excited. 
He became the object of universal admiration, and was 
feasted, and flattered, as if i: had been impossible to re 
ward his merit too highly. But what contributed prin- 
cipally to extend his fame into the sister kingdom, was 
his fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who. 
the 9'ah paper of the Lounger, recommended his poems 
by judicious specimens, and generous and elegant criti- 
cism. From this time, -whether present or absent. 
Burns and his genius were the objects which engrossed 
all attention and all conversation. 

It cannot be surprising if this new scene of hfe, pro- 
duced effects on Burns wliich were the source of much 
oftheunhappiness of his future life for while he was 
admitted into thecompanyof men of taste, and virtue, 
he was also seduced, by pressing invitations into the so- 
ciety of those whose habits are loo social and inconsid- 
erate. It is to be regretted that he had little resolution 
to withstand those attentions which flattered his merits 
and appeared to be the just respect due to a degree of 
superiority, of which he could not avoid being conscious. 
Among liis superiors in rank and merit, his behaviour 
was in general decorous and unassuming ; but among 
his more equal or inferior associates, he was himself 
the source of the mirth of the evening, and repaid the 
attention and submission of his hearers by sallies of wit, 
which, from one of his birth and education, had all the 
fascination of wonder. His introduction, about the 
same time, into certain convivial clubs of higher rank, 
was an injudicious mark of respect to one who was des- 
tined to return to tlte plougli , and to the simple and fru- 
gal enjoyments ofa peasant's life. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his finances were 
considerably improved by the new edition of his poems ; 
and .his enabled him to visit several other parts of his 
native country. He left Edinburgh, May 6,1787, and 
in the course ofhis journey was hospitably received at 
tlie houses of many gentlemen of worth and learning. 
H e afterwards travelled into England as far as Carlisle . 
In the beginning of June he arrived in Ayrshire, after 
an absence of six months, during which he had expe- 
rienced a change of fortune, to which the hopes of few 
men in his situation could have aspired. His compan- 
ion in some of these tours was a Mr. Nicol, a man 
who wa? endeared to Burns not only by the warmth of 
his friendship, but by a certain cpngeniaUty of senti- 
ment and agreement in habits. This sympathy, in 
some other instances, made our poet capriciously fond 
of companions, who, in the eyes of men of more regular 
conduct, were insufi'erable. 

Durins the greater part of the winter 1787-8. Burns 
again resided In Edinburgh, and entered with peculi- 
ar relish into its gayeties. But as the singularities ol 
his manner displayed themselves more openly, and 
as the novelty of his appearance wore off", he became 
less an object of general attention. He lingered long 
in this place, in hopes that some situation would have 
been otlered which might place him in independence: 
bui as it did not seem probable that any thing of that 
kind would occur soon, he began seriously to reflect. 



that tours of pleasure and praise would not provide 
for the wants ofa family. Influenced by these consid- 
erations he quitted Edinburgh in the month of Febru- 
ary, 1788. Finding himselt master of nearly 500i, 
from the sale of his poeras, he took the farm of Eliis- 
land, near Dumfries, and stocked it with pari of this 
money, besides generously advancLig U^^>i, to his 
brother Gilbert, vho was struggling with Difficulties. 
Ke was now also >ee*Jy unite<ilo Mrs. Burns, who 
joined him with tWv *aJi-i/w about the end of the 
year. 

Quitting now speculation for more active pursuits, 
he rebuilt the dwelling house on his farm ; and du- 
ring his engagement in this object, and while the re- 
gulations of the farm had the charm of novelty, he 
passed his time in more tranquillity than he had late- 
ly experienced. But unfortunately, his old habits 
were rather interrupted than broken. He was again 
invited into social parties, with the additional recom- 
mendation of a man who had seen the world, and 
Uvea with the gi-eat ; and again partook of those irre- 
gularities for which men of warm imaginations, 
and conversation-talents, fiud so many apologies. 
But a circumstance now occurred wliich threw many 
obsticles in his way as a farmer. 

Burns very fondly cherished those notions of inde- 
pendence, which are dear to the young and ingenious. 
But he had not matured these by reflection ; and he 
was now to learn, a little knowledge of the world will 
overturn many such airy fabrics. If we may form 
any judgment, however, from his correspondence, 
his expectations were not very extravagant, sii.ce he 
expected only that some of his illustrious patrons 
would have placed him, on whom they bestowed the 
honours of genius, in a situation where his exertions 
might have been uninterupted by the fatigues of la- 
bour, and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, 
he now formed a design of applying for the office of 
exciseman, as a kind of resource in case his expecta- 
tions from the farm should be baflled. By the inter- 
est of one of hie t-ends this object was accomplished; 
and after the usual toims were gone through, he was 
appointed exctseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, gau- 
ger of the district iu which he lived. 

*'Hi3 farm was now abandoned to his servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new ap- 
pointment. He might still, indeed, be seen in the 
spring, directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- 
celled, or striding with measured steps, along his turn- 
ed-up furrows, and scattering the grain in the earth. 
But hL"» farm no longer occupied the principle part of 
his care or his thoughts. Mounted on horseback, he 
was found pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the hills and vales of JVitbsdale." 

About thistime (1792,) he was solicited, to give his 
aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Songs. 
He wrote, with attention and without delay, for this 
work, all the songs which appear in this volume ; to 
which we have added those he crctributed to John- 
sou's Musical Museum. 

Burns also found leisure to form a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the farmers of 
the neighbourhood ; but these, however praiseworthy 
employments, still interrupted the attention he ought 
to have bestowed on his farm, which became so un- 
productive that he found it convenient to resign it, 
and, disposing of his stock and crop, removed to a small 
house which he had taken iu Dumfries, a short time 
previous to his lyric engagement with Mr. Thomson. 
He had now received from the Board of Excise, 
an appohitment to a new district, the emoluments 
of which amounted to about seventy pounds sterUng 
pert 



While at Dumfries, his temptations to irregidarity, 
recurred so frequently as nearly to overpower his i-e- 
solution, and which he appears to have formed with 
a perfect knowledge of what is right and prudent. 
During his quiet raomenU, however, he was eniarg 



OF THE AUTHOR. 



in? .his fame by those admirable compositions he 
Bent to Mr. Thomson : and his temporary sallies and 
flashes of imagination, in the merriment of the social 
table, still bespoke a genius of wonderful strength and- 
captivations. It has been said, indeed, that extraor- 
dinary as his poems are, they atFord but inadequate 
proof of tlie powers of their author, or of that 
acuteness of observation, and expression, he displayed 
on common topics in conversation. In the society of 
persons of taste, he could refrain from those indul- 
gences, which, among his more constant compan- 
ns, probably formed his chief recommendation. 

The emoluments of his office, which now compo- 
sed his whole fortune, soon appeared insufhcient for 
the maintenance of his family. He did not, indeed, 
from the first, expect that they could ; but he had 
hopes of promotion and would probably have attain- 
ed it, if he had not forfeited the favour of the Bourd of 
Excise, \)y some conversations on the state of public 
aitans, which were deemed highly improper, and 
were probably reported to the Board in a way not 
calculated to lessen their effect.' That he should have 
been deceived by the aflairs in France during the 
early periods of the revolution, is not surprising he 
only caught a portion of an enthusiasm which waB then 
very general ; bet tba.'.'ue should have raised his ima- 
gination to a wai'kni.n beyond his fellows, will appear 
very singular, when we consider that he had hitherto 
distinguished himself as a Jacobite, an adherent to the 
house of Stewart. Yet he had uttered opinions 
which were thougbt dangerous ; and informatiop. be- 
ing given to the Board, an inquiry was instituted into 
his conduct, tiiat result of which, although rather fa- 
vourable, was not so much as to re-instate him in the 
good opinion of the comissioners. Interest was ne- 
cessary to enable him to retain his office ; and he was 
informed that his promotion was deferred, and must 
depend ou his future behaviour. 

He is said to have defended himself, on this occa- 
sion, in a letter addressed to one of tlie Board, with 
much spirit and sitill. He wrote another letter to a 
gentleman, who, hearing tliat he had been dismissed 
from his situation, proposed a subscription for him. 
In this last, he gives an account of the whole transac- 
tion, and endeavours to vindicate his loyalty ; he also 
contends for an independence of spirit, which he cer- 
tainly possessed, but which yet appears to have par- 
taken of that extravagance of sentiment which are fit- 
ter to point a stanza than to conduct a life. 

A passage in this letter is too characteristic to be 
omitted.— -" Often," says our poet, " in blasting an- 
ticipation have 1 listened to some future hackney 
scribler, with heary malice of savage stupidity, exult- 
ingiy asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
faronade of independence to be found in his works, 
and after having been held up to public view, and to 
public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet quite 
destitute of resources within himself to support his 
borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman ; 
and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existance, in 
the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of 
mankind." 



This passage has no doubt oflen been read with 
sympathy. That Burns should have embraced the 
only opportunity in his power to provide for his fami- 
ly, can be no topic of censure or ridicule, and however 
incompatable with the cultivation of gsai J3 the busi- 
ness of an exiseman may be, there is nothing of moral 
turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It was not his 
choice, it was the only help within his reach : and he 
laid hold of it. But that he should not have found a 
patron generous or wise enough to place him in a sit- 
uation at least free from allurements to " the sin that 
80 easily beset him ;" is a circumstance on which the 
admirers of Burns have found itpainful to dwell. 

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97lh number of the Louneer, 
after mentioning tlie poet's design of going to the West 
..idies, concludes that paper.in words to which suffi- 



cient attention appears not to have been paid ' " I 
trust means may be found to prevent this resolution 
from taking place ; and that I do my country no mora 
than justice, when I suppose her ready to stretch out 
the hand to cherish and retain this native poet, whose 
" wood notes wild" possess so much excellence. To 
repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected merit; to 
call forth genius from obscurity in which it had 
pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or de- 
light the world : — these are exertions which give 
to wealth an enviable superiority, to greatness and to 
patronage a laudable pride. 

Although Burns deprecated the reflections which 
might be made on his occupation of exciseman, it may 
be necessary to add, that from this humble step, he 
foresaw all the contingencies and gradations of promo- 
tion up to a rank on which it is not usual to look with 
contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he states that he ia 
on the Ust of supervisors ; that in two or three years 
he should be at the head of that list, and be appoint- 
ed, as a matter of course ; but that then a friend 
might be of service in getting him into a part of the 
kingdom which he would Uke. A supervisor's income 
varies from about 120^ to '2001. a year : but the busi- 
ness is " an incessant drudgery, and would be near* 
ly a complete bar to every species of literary pur- 
suit." He proceeds, however, to observe, that the 
moment he is appointed supervisor he mz^/i< be nomi- 
nated on the Collector's list, "and this is always a 
business purely of political patronage. A collcctorship 
varies from much better than two hundred a year to 
near a thousand. Collectors also come forward by 
precedency on the list, and have besides a handsome 
income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary- 
leisure with a decent competence, is the summit of my 
wishes." 

He was doomed, however, to continue in his present 
employment for the remainder of his days, which 
were not many. His constitution was now rapidly 
decaying ; yet, his resolutions of amendment were 
but feeble. His temper became irritable and gloomy, 
and he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness anj) 
soothing attentions of his afiectionate wife. In the 
month of June, 1796, he removed to Brow, about ten 
miles from Dumfries, to try the eftect of sea-bathing ; 
a remedy that at first, he imag^ined, relieved the rheu- 
matic pains in his limbs, with which he had been af- 
flicted for some months :' but this was immediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When brought 
back to his house at Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he 
was no longer able to stand upright. The fever in- 
creased, attended with delirium and debility, and on 
the 21st he expired, in the tliirty-eighth year of hia 



He left a widow and four sons, for whom the inhab- 
itants of Dumfries opened a subscription, which being 
extended to England, produced a considerable sum 
for their immediate necessities.' This has since been 
augmented by the profits of the edition of tiis works, 
printed in four volumes, 8vo ; to which Dr Currie of 
Liverpool, prefixed a life, written with much elegance 
and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, he is described as being 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a form that 
indicated agihly as well as strength. His well-raised 
forehead, shaded with black cuHing hair, expressed 
uncommon capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full 
of ardour and animation. His face was well formed, 
and his countenance uncommonly interesting. H-ia 
conversation is universally allowed to have been un- 

* Mrs. Burns continues to live in the honse in which 
the Poet died ; the eldest son, Robert, is at present ia 
the Stamp Office : the other two are officers m the 
East India company's army, William is in Bengal, 
and James in Madrass, (May, 1813.,) Wallace, the 4 
second son, a lad of great promise tUed of a consump- 
tion. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



•ommonly fascinating, and rich in wit, humour, whim, 
and occasionally in serious and apposite reflection. 
This excellence, however proved a lasting misfortune 
to him ; for while it procured him the friendship of 
men of character and taste, in whose company his hu- 
mo-ir was guarded and chaste, it had also ailurcmenls 
for ''jhe lovest of numkind, who know no difference be- 



tween freedom and licentiousness, and are never m 
completely gratified as when genius condescends to 
give a liind of sanction to their grossness. He died 
poor, but not in debt, and left behind him a name, th« 
fame of wiiich wili nuj won te eclipsed. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

BY MR. ROSCOE. 



REAR high thy bleak majestic liills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah I what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

Ai green thy towering pines may gi'ow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

And wake again thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and Ufeless all aroimd, 
For his wild harp Hes all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound 

What tho' thy vigorous otfspring rise 

In arts and arms thy sons excell ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains irapassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the Song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee I 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view .' 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due ! 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely v/astes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer lhought|; 
And oft thy winding dells be sought, 

Where wild flowers pour'd their ratb perfume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

Bu'., ah I no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toi' , 

His days with early hardships tried: 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 



Before his infant eyes would glide 
Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with tliB evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by ids rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toQ 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah I days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour sprinC*, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unuUerable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare. 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dancet 
Let flattery ^read her viewless snare, 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil 'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. 
Till lost in love's delirious trance 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl | 
And let the careless moments roll 

lu social pleasures unconfln'd, 
And confidence that spurns control, 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 

And lead his steps those bowers among. 
Where elegance with splendour Tie*, 
Or science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him iearn the bliss to prize 
That waits the sons of colish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins be&t h.' 
With every impulse of delight, 



VIU 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS 



Daih from his lips the cup of Joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 

And let despair, with wizard liglit, 
Disclose the yawing gulf below, 

And pour incessant on his sight, 

Her spectred ills and shapes of wo I 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eye»v 
In silent griefwhere droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infant's tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband aad a father's name. 

'Tie done — ^the ooverful cnarm succeeds , 
Hii high relvciani ricint o*d(u : 



In bitteraess of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 

An idiot laugh the welkin rends 
As genius thus degraded lies ; 

Till pitjnng Heaven the veil extends 
Thai shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

—Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills. 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never mere shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the sootbicg slnLia. 



POEMS, 
CHISFLir SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS.— il Tale. 



'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the nameo' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' tlie afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him CcBsar, 
Waskeepitfor his Honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Bliow'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad. 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
Thefient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'nwi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawtedtyke, tho' e'er sae buddie, 
But he wad stawu't,asglad to see him, 
And slroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The titherwas a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
W^ha fcrhis friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang, * 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 

As every lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

His gawcietail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thich thegilher ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snufT'd and snowkit, 
Whylea mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'dawa' in lang excursion. 
An' worry' 3 ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' dafBn weary grown. 
Upon a knowe thye sat them down, 

• CuchuUin'e dog in Osslan's Fingal. 



And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the cre<ijLion, 

C^SAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor doga like you have. 
An 'when the gentry's life I snw 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents, 
He rises when he likes himself ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
Heca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' thesteeki 
The yallow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechim. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, andsiclike trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blaslit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-fulk pit their painehiu, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they'ie fash't eneugh | 
A cottar hovvkin in a sheugh, 
Wi'dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee dubbie weans, 
Aa' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight inthack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or wanto' masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hung(r ; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're malstly wonderfu' contented ; 



IS 



BURN'S POMES. 



An'buirdlychiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how yeVe neg'eckit, 
How hurd, and cuiTd, and disrespeckil ! 
1. — d, ECau, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'li, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' raony atitne my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies scant o'cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun, staun', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble. 

I see how folk live than hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ? 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's atie wad think ; 
Tho'constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're eae accustom'd wi, the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guidetl, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An'tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rests's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prating things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco 'nappy ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mend the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o'patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin. 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

Aj bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
Ther get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rurai K/e, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' seeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guide ynW ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
Tlie young anes rantin thro, the house, — . 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That 1 for joy hae barkit wi' them. 



Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baiih root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parlimentm. 
For Britain's guide his saul iudentin— 

C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith I I doubt it 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead liim, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him, 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging gambling masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 
So make a tour, an' take a wiiirl, 
To learn bon ton, an' see the warl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles 
He rives his father's auld entails; 
Or by Madrid betakes the rout, 
Ta thrum guitars, and fechtwi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtle* 
Then bouses druraly German water. 
To make himself look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnivail signoras. 
For Britain's guid I for her distruction I 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate 1 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang the gaie at last I 

O would Ihey stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' kiutra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter I 
For Ihae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fienthaet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Orspeakiu lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor cock, 
The ne'er a bit they 're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure .* 
Nae cauld nor hunger e-er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need na fear ihem. 

C^SAR 

L — d , man , were ye but whyles whare lam, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na straveor sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banei, 
Aa' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes j 



PHEPACE 

TO THE 

FIRST E DITTO JV 

OP ' 

BURNS' POEMS, 

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. 



The following trifles are not the production of the 
poel, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, 
perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper 
life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to 
Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and 
other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in their original language, a fountam shut up, 
and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessa- 
ry requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the 
tentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself 
and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their 
native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer 
passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, 
perhaps the partiality, of friendship, awaltened his 
vanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth 
ehuwi'ng ; and none of the following works were com 
posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself 
with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the 
toils and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the 
various feelings, the loves, the giiefs, the hopes, the 
fears, in his own breast : to find some kind of counter- 
poise to the struggles of a world, always an ahen scene, 
a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his 
motives for courting the Muses, and intliese he found 
poetry to be its own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an 
author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear 
is fame to the rhymmg tribe, that even he, an obscure, 
nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
branded as — An impertinent bjockhead, obtruding his 
nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a 
shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, 
looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence, forkooth 1 



It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shen- 
stone, whose divine elegies do honour to our lan- 
guage, our nation, and our species, that " Humili- 
ty has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but uev 
er raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the 
word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he 
certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poet- 
ic abilities, otherwise his pubUshing in the manner he 
has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst 
character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever 
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glo- 
rious dawnings of the poor unfortunate Fergiisson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in 
his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the moat dis- 
tant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch 
poets he has often had in his eye in the following pie- 
ces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame 
than for servile imitation. 



To his Subscribers, the author returns his most sin- 
cere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, 
but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the bard, con- 
scious how much he owes to benevolence and frientl- 
ship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dear- 
est wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. 
He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
polite who may honour him with a perusal, that they 
will make every allowance for education and circum- 
stances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impar- 
tial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and 
nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case 
do by others— let him be condemned, without mercy 
to contempt and oblivion. 



MEDICATION 

OF THE 

SECOND EDITION 

OF THE 

poEixrs roRDiiiRLir printed. 

TO THE 

jyOBLEMEJSr AJVD GEJYTLEMEJV 



CAZaEBOHZAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose high 
est ambtion IS to sing in his Country's service — where 
shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illus 
trious names of his native Land; those who bear the 
honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The 
Poetic, Genius of my Country found me, as the pro- 
phetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough; and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing 
the loves, the ioys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures 
of my native soil, in my native tongue : I tuned my wild 
art.ess not? s, as she inspired — S3he whispered me to 
come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay 
my Songs under your honoui-ed protection.; I now obey 
her dictates. 

Thou^much indebted to vour goodness, I do not ap- 
proach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual 
style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that 
path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest 
rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Ad- 
dress with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking 
for a continuation of those favours; I was bred to the 
Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the com- 
mon Scottish name ^vith you, my illustrious Country- 
men; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I 
eome to congratulate my Country, that the blood of 



her ancient heroes s'ill runs anccntammated ; and that 
from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she 
may expect protection, wealth and liberty. In the last 
place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the 
Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Uni- 
verse, for your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the an- 
cient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, 
may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social 
Joy await your return : When harrassed in courts or 
camps with the josthngs of bad men and bad measures, 
may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend 
your return to your native Seats; and may domestic 
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your 
gates ! May corruption sliriuk at your kindling indig- 
nant glance ; and may tyirany in the Ruler, and licen- 
tiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable 
fbe 

I have the honour to be. 
With the sliicerest gratitude, 
and higfoet respect, 
My 1„; js and Gentlemen, 
Vour most de' * »d. humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS 

Edinburgh, 
April 4, 1787 



BURNS' POEMS. 



15 



In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' human' haw; 
But raiie your arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a'. 

Pamt Scotland gi-eeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkiu stoup as toora's a whissle : 
An' d — ma'd Excisemen in a bussle, 
Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushiu'tliUe a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smugler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

CoUeaguingjoin, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld Milher's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could 1 like Montgom'ries fight, 

Ovga.h like Boswell 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

An' tie some hose well. 

God Bless your Honors, can ye see't 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them Lear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriotic heat, 

Yewinnabearit 1 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To raak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrang. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran ; 
Thee aith-detesting, chaste KilJcerran ;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham,^ 
An' aue, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran, 
Dundas his name. 

ErsMne, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
Tri Camvbeils, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An Lioingttone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' monie itliers 
W m auld Demosthenes or TuUy 

Might own for brithers. 

rouse, my boys 1 exert your mettle 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. E. 

t The present Duke of Montrose. (1800.) E. 



To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith 1 I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'U see't, or laiig, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reckin whittle, 

Anilher sasg. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fired her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid. 

Play 'd her that pliskie I) 
An' now she like to riu red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d, if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r th' first she meets I 

For G— d sake. Sirs I then speak.her fair, 
An^ straik her caiinie wi' the hair. 
An' to the mukle house repair, 

Wi' instant apeedi 
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing bos 

An' .sportinlady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock'a 
I'll be his debt twa mushlam bonnocks, 
All' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock* 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's 
Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
You mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 

The Coalition, 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

Tho' by the neck she should be strung. 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap youi fingers, poor an' hearty. 
Before his face. 
God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchling, 
where he sometimes studied Politics over a glass Cif 
guid auld Scotch Drink. 



16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



In spite 'o a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt 52. Jamie's 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name i«. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys, 

Takaff their Whisky, 

What tho' their Phebus kinder' warm», 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ; 
When wretches rage, in famish 'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther 
They downa bide the stint o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thoughts' a haukr'ing swither 

To Stan' or nn, 
TUl skelp— a shot— they're aff, a' tlirowther, 
To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
, Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breath he sees him 
In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I 'U tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither t 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! 

Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 
Hid crafty observation ; 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scot- 
land for a Sacramental occasion. 



And secret hung, wilb jmisoi'd f >•>••*, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 
Hypocrisy 



UPON a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintia; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs. 

The lav'ncks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day 

II. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three Hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back. 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

in. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin. 

In feature, form, an' claes I 
Their visage, wilher'd, lang, an' tWn, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowf, 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e're she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet !»»•, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Q,uo' she, an' laughin as she spak. 

An' taks me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae, gi'en tne feck 

Of a' the ten conmiands 

A (creed some day. 

V. 

"My name is Fun— your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hipocrisy. 
I'ragaunto *'*******flbZy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Buthiunan bodies are sic foolK, 
For a' their colleges aud schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to siurt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco wee! : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o'wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy : 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The Joy can scE.rcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They ejp the scandal portion pretty ; 
Orlee-lang.nights, wi' crabbitleuks 
Pors owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard. 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ] 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ! 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs / 
An' each took aflhis several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

Thai's sinking in despair ; 
An' li",uor guid to fire his bluid. 

That's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deepc'-ouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er. 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs xxx, 



I,ET other poets raise a fracas 
'Bout Tines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 
Ab crsfcblt names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 



I aing the juice Scots beer can make us, 
In glass or jug. 

O ihou, my Muse .' guid auld Scotch Drink : 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To slug thy name I 

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn, 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

Purfume the plain, 
Leezeme on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o» grain I 

On thee af'. Scotland chows her cood, 
In scouple si.ones, the waleo' food I 
Or tumbliuin the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 

There thou shines chie( 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps uslivin ; 
Tho' hfe's a gift no worth receivin. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin, 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Car ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil. 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind iutime o' need. 

The poor man's win« • 
His wee drap patritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fint. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly metings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
WTien gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

T hat merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-morning year 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. 

An' gusty sucker! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their gi-aith 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath 

I' th'luggitcp 
Then Bumewin* comes on like dea" 

At every cha 

♦ Bumewin— burn-the-wind the Blacksmith— w. 6^ 
propriaie title. E, 



14 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Nae mercy, then, for aim or »teel ; 
The bi-awnie, baiuie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsorae clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou makes the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin duifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name 1 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Orplack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel 1 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 

AJake 1 that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason I 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An ' hardly, in a winter's season , 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy burningtrash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an'brash 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days 
All' sends' besides' auld Scotland's cash 

Toherwarstfaes. 

\ e Scots, w^ha wish auld Scoland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines tomell, 

Or foreign gill. 

..^Rlay gravels round his blather wrench. 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' tchishy punch 

W' honest men. 

O ^^'^lisky J saul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattled i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s 1 

Three, Ferinlosk! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast 1 
Now cajic grips, an' barkin hoast 

May kill us a' ; 
For royal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice I 

There, seize the blinkers ! 



And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinker*. 

Fortune ! if thou '11 but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and iV/usky gill, 
An' rowlh o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee Jest. 



THE AUTHOR'S 

EARJ^EST CRY ^J^-D PRAYER 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES, 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Destination ! last and best 

How art thou lost 1 

Parody on Milton 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our aflairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Aie humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse, 
Your honors' hearts wi' gi-ief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' scriechin out prosaic vese, 

An' like to brust I 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction. 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, 

On AquavitcB ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move theiiT)ity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth^ 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His sei-vauts hum! ?e! 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble I 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb I 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they cana come, 

Far better want e'm. 

♦ This was written before the act anent the Scotch 
Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and 
the Author return their most grateful ihanke. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



17 



Gin ye'll go Ibere, yon runkl'd pah" 
VVc will get I'amous laughia 

At them this day." 



Qruoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't : 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on 
An' meet you on the holy spot 

Faith, we'se hae fine reraarkin 1" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaedhoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin o're the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

Aa'farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

WTien by theplate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped upwi' ha'pence 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin. 
Some carrying dales, some chau-s an' stools, 

An' some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our kintra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an twa-three wh-res. 

Are Biinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blaei«guarding frae K ck 

For /tin this day. 



Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace- proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at waich, 

Tlir? ng w^nkm on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 
Nae wondei that it pride him ! 



Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 
Comes chukin down beside him ! 

Wi' arm reposed on the chair back. 
He sweeily does compose him I 

Which, by degi-ees, slips round her neck, 
An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkeu'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er. 

Is silent expectation ; 
For **•*•* speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mnt--n. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him. 
The vera sigh o' *'***'sface, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day, 

XIII. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' ratlin an' wi' ihumpini 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he'sjumpin! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, 

His eldritch sqiieel and gestyes. 
Oh how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cautharidian plasters. 

On sic a day 1 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna tit for anger. 
*****' opens out his cauld hai-angue», 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' affthe godly pour in thrangs. 

To g'ie the jars an barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture firie. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrares or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne're a word o' faith in 

Tliat's right that day. 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic pciison'd nostrum ; 
For*****'*, fi ae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it. 
While Common-Sense has ta'cn the road. 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day. 

• A street so caJled, which faces the (enf ir 



18 



BURNS' POEMS. 



XVII. 
Wee ••••** J niest, the Guard relieves, 

An' Othodoxy ralbles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believea, 

An' thinlcs it auld wives' fables : 
But faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannily he bums them ; 
Allbo' his carnal wit au' sense 

Like hafflius-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

XVIII. 

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

An' there the pint siowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud.an' lang, 

Wi' Logic an' wi' Scriptui-e, 
They raise a din, that in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O wrath that day. 

XIX. 

Leeze me ou Drink 1 it gies us mair 

Then either School or College ; 
It kindles wit, it wakens lair, 

It bangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be'l wiskygill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails cu drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To mind'baith saul an' body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An' forrain assignations. 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L— d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin. 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black ♦•••*« is na sparin, 
His pierceing words, like Highland swords. 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' H-U, where devils dwell, 

Our Tera sauls dose harrow • 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

ATast,unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

FUl'd fou o' lowin brunslaue, 
Wbase ragin flame, an' scorchir heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whum-stane 1 

* Shakespeare'i Hamlet. 



Thehalf asleep start up wi' feai, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some uuebor suorin 

Asleep that aay. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist j 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an'caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' daubs that da} 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the lire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The Aulil Guidmen about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day 

XXV. 

Waesucks 1 for him that gets nae* la*«, 

Or lasses that hae naething t 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing I 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yourael. 

How bcnnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-beel, 

Let lasses be aflfronted 

On sic a day.t 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an'croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they daw, 

Some wait the aftenoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune. 

For crack that day 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converta 

O' sinners and o' lasses 1 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end la Houghmangandie 

Someither doy. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



19 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

SOME books are lies frae end to end, 
AND some great lies were never penn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at time to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Isjustaa true'slheDeil's in h-ll 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'Samuckle pity 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou,butjuat and plenty ; 

I Btacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches j 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I sent mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

Icou'd natell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi'a' nry skill, 

To keep me sicker > 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 
I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in eerie swither ; 

An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A tbree-tae'd leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its statnre seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape tliat e'er I saw, 
For fieat a wane it had ava I 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o'branks. 



quo' I 



Friend I hae ye been 



" Guid-een, 
raawin, 

When ither folk are busy sawin ?' • 
It leem'd to mak a kind o' staa 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 
Will ye go back ?"• 

It spaKe light howe,—" My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd."— duoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie : 

* Thii rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785, 



I red ye weel, takcareo' skaith, 

See, there's a gully I" 

" Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to ti-y its mettle ; 
But if I did, 1 wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard. 

" Weel, weel I" says I, "a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come, gies your news 
This while* ye hae been monie a gate 

At mouie a house." 

" Ay, ay 1" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An' choke the breath ; 
Folk maun do something for their bread. 

An' sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 

An' monie a scheme in vam's been laid. 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till une Hornoook's t ta'em up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur ma 

" Ye kea Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Dei\majihis king's-hood in a splenchan 1 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchart \ 

An' ither chaps. 
That weans baud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd raony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi''his art, 

And cursed skill, 
Has made thembaith not worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've Hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just pley'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook, viaMhj, wi' ready art. 
And had sae fortify 'd the part, 
That when I looked to my dart. 

It was aae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
Of a kail-runt. 

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that 
country. 

t This gentleman, Z)r. /forriSoot, is professionally, 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of Ferula ; but, by 
intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary 
Surgeon, and Physician. 

X Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



20 



BURNS' POEMS. 



" I drew my sithe in sic a fury, 
Inearhand cowpit wi' my hurry 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
1 might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Alto' their face he ne'er hadkend it, 

Just in a kail-btade, and send it, 

As soon he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it 
At oncehe tells't. 

■" And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae J 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
As A B C. 

«' Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please . 

He cau content ye. 

" Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 
Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 
Bistill'd^er se; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail-clippings, 

And moniemae." 

•'Waes me for Johnny Ged't Hole* now," 
duo' I, " if that the news be true 1 
Hisbraw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin /oAnJe.'" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
And says, " Ye need na yoke thepleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hombook^s skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wee bred. 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. 
When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

•The grave-digger. 



" A kintra Laird had ta'en the batt*. 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmerpets. 

Was laird himsel. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her warae ! 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook^s care ; 
Horn sent her affto her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-ma'd dirt : 

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, 

As dead's aherrin: 
Niest tune we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gels his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which raisY' us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 



INSCRIBED TO J. B* 



, ESa. AYR. 



THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush) 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep-ton'd, plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er tha 

hill; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's fieia, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose f 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care ne trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When B* *•••••• * befriends his huraoie luime, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



21 



And hftud« the rustic stranger up to fame, 
Witn heart-fell throes his grateful bosom swelis, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas -when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil won-crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaitli 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on every side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 
Mild, calm, serene, •wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze, 
Wliile thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and pi^or, simplicity's reward ; 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Sim.pson^s* wheel'd the left about': 
(Whether im))ell'd by all-directing Pate, 
To witness wliat I after shall narrate ; 
Or wliether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsey Dungeon-clock^ had number'd two. 
And IKreWace Towert had sworn the fact was true. 
The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding roar. 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : 
Alt dse was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moou shone high o'er tower and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gentiy crusting, o'er tte glittering stream. — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the GosX drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Au!d Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ilher flutters o'er the risingpiers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
The Sprites that owre tlie Bri gs of Ayr \ir&e,iie. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
Andken the lingo of tlie sp'ritual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelp-es, a', they can explain them,) 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) 
AuldBrig appear'd of ancient i ictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 

*A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

tThe two steeples. 

JThe gos-hawk, or falcon. 



Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.. 

New £r;g- was buskit in a braw new coat, 

That he, at Lon on, frae ane Adams, got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's ahead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums ai the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 

It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 

And e'en a vex'dand angry heart had he ! 

Wi' thieveless sneer to see hi3 modish mien, 

He, down the water, gies him this guideen ;— 

AULD BRIG. 

Idoubt na,frien',ye'll think ye're nae sheep shank, 

Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 

Tho' faith that day, I doubt, ye'll never see 

There'll be, if that date corae, I'll wad aboddle. 

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense. 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, 
Yourruin'd, formless bulk o'stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o'modern time? 
There's men o'taste would tak the Ducat-stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hidk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff 'd up wi' windy pride I 
This monje a year I've stood the.flood an' tide : 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairni 
As yet ye Httle ken aoou'. the matter. 
But twa-tnree winters will inform you better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from tlie hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moreland course. 
Or haunted Garpal\ draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowcs. 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roai-ing speat. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an brisks, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck,^ down to the Rotton-key,* 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthn'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies : 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost 
That Architecture's xioble art is lost J 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig, 
t The banks of Garprr.l Water is one of the few 
places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy- 
scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still 
continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

} The source of the rivir Ayr. 

§ A small landing place above the large key. 



«2 



BURNS' POEMS. 



NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I neeJs must say't o't I 
The L— d be thank't that we've lint the gate o't I 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
C 'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspinng coves 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms miglit be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not/ound on earth, in air, or sea. 
Mansions that would disgi-ace the building taste 
Of any mansion, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings I 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha iu the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
A ad, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'reud Men, their country's glory. 
In plain braid Scots holp forth a plain braid story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
Bu; staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by TaUors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weli-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs 
and Harbours I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now baud you there 1 for faith ye've said enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. 
As for your priesthood, i shall say but little. 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might well be spar'd : 
fo liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
; must needs say, comparisons are odd. 



In Ayr, Wag-wits na mair can hae a handle 

To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hopes an' 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 

Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 

And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishraaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ! 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan,' thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear StraC'ispeys ^iiej bore with Hi^ 

land rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'dl 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung iu every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fer«d-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wrealh'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair\: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrirte, their long-lov'd abode ; 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wr^atb, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin Viig 
wrath. 

* A well knowr. performer of Scottish music on the 



BURNS' POEMS. 



23 



TriE ORDINATION. 



f or sense they iittle owe to Frugal Heaven— 
To please the Mub ttiej hide the little given. 



I. 

KILMARNOCK Wabsters fidge an' claw 

An' pour your crceshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' deiiomiations, 
Swift to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a' 

An' there talc up your stations ; 
Then affto B-gh — n in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 



II. 



Curst Common Sense that imp o' h-11, 

Caminwi' Maggie Lauder ;* 
But O **«•♦*• aft made her yell. 

An' R ***** sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' ♦***•** takes the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her I 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

III. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse comegie us foui-, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang he, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

An' gloriously shall whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come, let a proper text be read. 

An' touch it affwi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham\ leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or PhincasX drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah,^ the scauldin jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

1' th' inn that day. 



There, try his mettli, on the creed, 
And bind him down wi' caution, 

• Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the 
admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to 
the Laigh Kirk. 

tGenesis,chapix.22. JNumbers.ch. xxv.ver.8. 
§ Kxodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 



That Stipend is a carnal weed 

Hetaks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flocks, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae daf . 



Now auld KilmamocJc cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty , 
Nae mair thou 'It rowte out-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

VII. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weeR 

To think upon our Zion; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep. 

And o'er the thairms be tryin ; 
Oh, rare I to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails fly in 

Fu' fast this day I 

VIII. 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Hasshor'd tlie Kirk's undoin. 
As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, 

Las proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

He saw mischief was brewiu ; 
And like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day, 

IX 

Now R* * * * • • ♦ )iarangue nae mair, 

But sleek your gab for ever: 
Or try the wicked town of A** 

For there they'll think you clever 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver 
Or to the N-th^t-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

X. 

M * • * * * and you were just a matcii, 
We never had sic twa drones : 

Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk wa.ck. 
Just like a winkin baudrons ; 

And ay' he catch 'd the tither wretcV . 
To fry them in his caudrons ; 

But now his honour maun detach, 



24 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Wi' a' hi« Anstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 



XI. 

See, »ee auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingeia thro' the city ; 
Hark, how thenine-tail'd cat she plays I 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Gruuts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

XIL. 

But there's Mortality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tilheryell, 

Between his iwa companions ; 
See, Dow she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions I 
Now there — they're packed affto hell, 

And banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 

xin. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice I 

Come bouse about the porter I 
MoraUty's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M' •******, R***** are the Doys, 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse 

And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

XIV. 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To ^y^ry New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

OrParsonage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aflin fusion 

LiKe oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 



TO THE REV. MR. 

OnhisText, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. "And they 
ehall go forth, and grow up, like caives of the stall." 

RIGHT, Sir! yourtextl'U prove it true, 
Though Heretics may laugh ; 

* NewLight\s?L.e.ni pbraseinthe West of Scotland, 
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Nor- 
wich has defended so slienuously. 



For instance ; there's yoursel ju8i now, 
God knows, an unco Calf I 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as gr»at a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er sboidd be a Slot I 

Tho', when some kind connubial Dear 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble headof Aonis. 

And in y«ur lug most reverend James, 
To hearyou roar and rowte, 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claimj 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

" Here lies a famous Bullock!'^ 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince! Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. 

MILTON 



O THOU! whatever title suit Ihee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Cloctie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under batchei 
Spairges about the brunstaae coolie, 

To scaud poorwretchr* 

Hear me , auld H<msie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'msuresma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'entoadeiV, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeal I 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yonlowinheugh's thy hame, 

Thoa travels far; 
An' faith 1 thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong- wing'd tempest flyiB, 
Tirling the kirks j 



BURNS' POEMS. 



25 



Whylea, in tiie human bosom pryin, 

Unseea thou lurks. 

I've heard my rererend Grannie say, 
In lauelygieiia ye hke to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, dounce, honest woman I 
Aftyontthe dyke she's heard you bummln, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin. 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter' ni£;ht. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stnke, 
When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' diray craigs, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh 1 the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

Asyell's theBill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house. 
By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worse a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jiuglin icy-boord 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction. 
An' nighted Trav'Uers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Sptmkies 
Pecoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 



The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 
Delude his eyea, 

Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. 

Or strange to tell I 
The youngest Bt other ye wad whip 

Affstraughttohein 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul c/love they shar'd 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird 
In shady bow 'r: 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawingdog I 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue. 

Black be your fa' I 
An' ^ed the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a' 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizB 
Wi' reckit duds, an' restit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Maug better fo'k, 
An sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke 

An' how ye gat him i' your thralj, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst a»a? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fetchtin fierc«, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to his time. 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're tjiinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit: 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin. 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-hen! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake I 

• Vide Milton, Book VI. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MMLIE, 

THE author's only PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE 

As MaiHe,'an' her lambs thegither 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her clool she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch' 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
■VVhen Hughoc* he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowin een, an' lifted hand's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's ; 
He saw htr days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it 1 
He gaped wide, but neathing spak ! 
At length Poor Mailie silence brak. 

" O thou, Avhase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn ray woefu' case t 
lAy dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

•' Tell him, if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' t>>em out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may iiis flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' : 

" Tell him, he was a master kin'. 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O' bid him, save their harmless lives, 
Prae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives I 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Ofithervile wanrestfu' pets! 
Toslink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal. 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o'kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

•A neebor herd callau. 



" My poor toop-Iamb, my son on' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi, rare I 
An', if he live to be a beast. 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna nanw. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An, no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutea. 

" An, niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 
But ay keep mind to moopau' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breatb, 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for tay pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head. 
An' clos'd her e'en amaug the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickUng down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stan- of his woes ; 

Poor Maine's dead I 



It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter di-aw the tear 
Or mak our baidie, powie, wear 

The mourning weed t 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed ; 

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him. 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievish gree4, 
Our baedie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Maine's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
Her living image in heryowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the Knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An down the briny pearls rowe 

FoT Mailie dead 



BURNS' POEMS. 



27 



Shewa* raegeto" moorland tips, 
Wi' tawteil ket, an hairy iiips ; 
For h*r forbears were brought in ships 

rraeyont the Tweed 
A bonnier Jleek ne'er cross'd tlie clips 

Than Mailie dea.d. 

Wae wortli the man wha first did shape 
That vile, vvancLancie thing — a rape ! 
It males guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For MaiZJe dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ; 
An' wha 6n Ayr yoiu- chanters tune I 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon I 

His Mailie dead. 



Friendahip ! mysterious cement of the soul 1 
Sweet'n«r of life, and solder of society I 
I owe the much.— — 

BLAIR. 



DEAR .S****, thesleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was brief 

Against your arts. 
For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoou 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, 
To niak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turu'd youaff, a human creature 
On her first plan. 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now Iv'e ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle''! working prime 
My fancy yerkil up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comiu ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash ; 
ftome rliyme, (vain thought ! ) for needfu' cash 
Some rhyme to court tlie kintra clash, 
An' raise a din ; 



For me, an aim I never fash ; 

1 rhyme I 



' fun. 



The star that rules my-lucklese lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' damn'd my fortune to tV>e groat ; 
Bui \n requit, 
Has bless'd me vvi'a random thot 

' kintra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent I 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, *' Hoolis 
I red you, honest men, tak tent 1 

Yfc'U shaw your folly. 

" There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep meno' letters, 
Hae thought tliey had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters. 

Their unknoT/n pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows 1 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howea 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander en, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread, 

Tlieu, all unknown, 
I'll lay rae with the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone I 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and dale, 
Tlien top and maintop crowd tht s&U. 

Heave care o'er side I 
And large, before enjoymeat's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 



This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchaunted, fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, had in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd fa«t^ 
Comes hoslin, hirpliu owre the field, 

Wi' cieepin pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamla 
Then farewell vacant careless roamin ; 
An' fareweel, cheerfu' tankards foan.in. 
An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel, dear, dehuling woman, 

The joy of joy»l 



28 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorniug! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning. 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys' at th' expected warning, 

To joy an J play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

^mong the learea ; 
And though the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, finda flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights 1 nae rules nor roads observin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

Theyzig-zap on ; 
Till crust with age, obscure an' starvin, 
They aftec gi-oan. 

Alas I what bitter toil an' s' raining— 
But truce with peevish, poor complainijig ! 
la fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore, 
" Tho' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

An rowlh o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreepLng roasts to kinlra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards, 
Gie fine braw claes to fine Ufeguards, 

And maids of honour ; 
Andyillan' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconiier. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Hi! tie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some beledger'd cit. 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

*' While yearepleas'd tokeep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my fjcnnty meal, 



Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi'cheerfu'fac*, 
As laug's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace,' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
Ijouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cooi, 
Compar'd wi' you— O fool I fool ! fool 

How much unlike]! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke. 

Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces 1 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
Bni, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're teise I 
Nae ferly tho' ye do aespise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road.- 

Whilst I — ^but I shall haud me there^ 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, 1 shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Where'er I gang 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames wnh 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author 
was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined hinv- 
self to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fan- 
cy made the following ^<Wres6- .J 



I. 



GUID-MORNING to your Majesty! 

May heav'n augment your blisses. 
On every new birlh-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes 1 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a dav as this is, 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



Is sure an uncouth si^ht to Fee, 
Aniang the bii'th-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 



I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By nionie a lord and lady ; 
" God save the king!" 's a cuckoo sang 

Tliat's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar yon trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

HI. 

For me I before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neitlier pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to l,espatter ; 
There's mouie waur been o' the race. 

And aiblius ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

*Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
fiut facts are chiels that winua ding. 

An' downabe disputed: 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted. 
And now the third part of the string. 

An' less, will gang about it 

Thau didae day. 

Y. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To biame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fii e. 

To rule ilm mighty nation ! 
But, faith 1 I muckle doubt, ray Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 



And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God my lil'e's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Gr, faiili I 1 fear, that wi' the geese, 

I sliortly boost to pasture 

r the craft some day. 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Usui's a. trueguid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your ctiarges ; 
But, G-d-sake 1 let nae savtng-JU 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Vill. 

Adieu, my Lzege.' may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To i)ay your Queen, with due respect. 

My .fealty an' subjection 

This great birih-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairn time, Ileav'iilias lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bhss, till fate someday is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young potentate o" W , 

1 tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak £)ia?ia's pales, 

Or, rattl'ddicewi' Charlie, 

By night or day, 

XI. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clish-ma-claver; 
There, him* a.1 Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer 5jr ./o/jn,t 

He was an unco shaver 

For nionie a day. 

XII. 



For you, right rev 'rend O j 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 

Although a ribban at your lug 
Wad been a dress completer : 

•King Henry V. 
tSir John Falstatf: vide Shakspeare. 



30 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As ye disowu yon paushly Jog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith I an' get a wife to hag, 

Or, trouth ! ye'll staia llie mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIH. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley,* stem au' stero, 

Well rigg'd for Venus'' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter. 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, 'asUy, bonnie blossoms a', 

ye royal lasses dainty 
Heav'n mak you guid as wesl as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-pleuty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but smix', 

They're better just than uant ay 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' I consider now, 

Ye're unco muckledauiet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou. 

That yet hae tarrow'i at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautel 

Fu' clean that day 



THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST. t 

THE sxHi had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger' J maukin ta'en her wa^ 

To kail-yards green, 
Willie faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary f.ingin-tree 
The lee-laTig day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e. 
Far i' the west, 

•Alliidin; to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal saibr's amour. 

iDuan, a term of Qssian'sfcr the different divisions 
of a digressive jioem. See liis Caik-Loda, vol. ii. of 
M'l-'hersou's iraiislatiou. 



Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed 10 rest. 

There, Unely,t)y the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey 'd the spewing reek. 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking sraeeV, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattous squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
IIow I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done nae-thing. 
But etringin blethers up in rhj-rne. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash account ! 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt 'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' you starry roof. 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath— 

When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant ailh, halfform'd, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 
And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-bougha 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop thi^se reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been bro<en. 

A " hair braiu'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly -witty, rustic gi-ace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour, 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen ; 
Till hair a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! ray bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near !♦, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



31 



Her Tnantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew^ ; 
Deep lights andshades, bold-mingling threw, 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to ray astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 
Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
Tliere, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
A aid hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair 
Or ruins pendent in the air. 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to mvsi, some seem'd to dare, 
With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race' heroic wheel, 
And braudioh round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
W hile back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their stubborn foes. 

His country's saviour,t mark him well I 
Bold Richardtori' sX heroic swell ! 
The chief of Sark^ who glorious fell. 

In hi^h command ; 
A.id he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish Bhade,1l 
Stalk'd round liis ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier- featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 



The Wallaces. 



t William Wallace. 



I Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im. 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com 
mand, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the fomous 
buttle on the banks of Sark, fought anmo 1448. That 
glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious 
conduct, and intrepid valour of tUe gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

IT Coilus, kingof the PictSjfrnm whom the district of 
Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition 
s;ivs, near the family-seat of tlie Montgomeries of 
Coil's field, where lus 'burial-place is still shown. 



Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,* 
Near many a hermit-fanty'd cove, 
(i'it haunts for friendship cr for love) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awet 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore. 
Tins, all its source and end to draw. 

That, to adore. 

Bri/done's brave ward| I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot name on high. 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
1 view'd the heavenly-seeming /air; 
A whispering throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

• She did me greet, 

" All hail 1 my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low I ' 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the gi-eat genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As ai-ts or arms they understand. 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race amangthem share ; 
Some fire the st.J'er on to dare ; 
Some rouse tlif ^latriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindUng spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the vernal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And giace the hand. 

"And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age. 



Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk. 

e seat of the late do( 
rt. 

X Colonel Fullarton, 



t Catrine, the seat of the late doctor ands present 
professor Stewart. 



32 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tliey bind the wild pcetic rage 

In erergy, 

Or poiiit the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His 'Minstrel lays;' 
Cr tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind 

The Artisan ; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat 'ning storm some strongly rein, 
Some teach to meliontate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

«' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and paint. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning giace, 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I—Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Wliere once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 

Held ruling pow'r: 
I rnark'd thy embryo tuneful fiame. 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or, when the deepgreen-mantl'd earth 
Warm cherish'd ey'ry flow'ret's bh-th. 
And joy and music poui-ing forth 

111 eVryg^ove, 



I saw Jhee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless lov«. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave theu- evening joys, 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" Wlien youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering sliot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored iVame 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To sooth thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends . 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become my friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With ShcTistone's art, 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart, 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yetgreen the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

' ' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thj' humble sphere to shine : 
And trust me, not PotosVs mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard, 

" To give my counsel all in one 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" Andtcearthou this''— she solemn said. 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thouglit, she fled 

In light away. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



33 



ADDRESS OF THE UNCO GUID; 

OR, THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims maJce a rule, 

And lump them ay thegither j 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

Tlie Rigid Wise auither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' chaff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffm. 

Solomon. — Eccles.ch. 



1. 



() YE wha aresaeguid, yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's faults and folly 1 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's cdding still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

11. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for theu- thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Would here propone defences, 
Their dousie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Te see your state wi' theirs compar'd. 

And shudder at the niffer, 
Bui cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal galloj) : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea'-'/a. ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It maks an unco leeway. 



V. 

See social Ufe and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrify'd, they're grcwn 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to taste, 

D-mnation of expenses I 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'dupin godly laces. 
Before yegie poor /razZ/y names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
Adearlov'd lad, convenience sung, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me wisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

YIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never c«n adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resiiled. 



TAM SAMSON'S * ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God. 



Has auld K ******** * seen the Deil .' 
Or great M'*******t thrawn his heel 1 
OrR** ***** again grown weel,t 

To preach an' read. 

*When this worihy old sportsman went out last 
muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's 
Ijhrase, " the last of liis fields ;" and expressed an 
ardent wish to die and be buried in the muiis. Ou 
this hint the author composed his elegy and epiiaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- 
lion. Fic/e the Ordination, slanzall. 

X Another preacher, an equal favourite with tlie few, 
who was at that time ailing. For him, see also the 
ordination, stanza IX. 

B2 



34 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Na, waur than a 1" cries ilka cliiel, 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

K* ******** langmay griint an' grane 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 
In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane. 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel. 
Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tarn Samsou's dead 1 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

He was the klngo' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tain Samson's dead I 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail. 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weelkenn'd forsouple tail, 

Andgeds for greed. 
Since dark in death's_/SsA-cree; we wail 

Tarn Samson dead I 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Wiihouien dread ; 
Your mortal fae If now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ; 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd. 
Saw him in shootin gi-aith adorn'd, 
While pomters round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, oth ! he gaed and ne'er return'd 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout bis ancles fetters ; . 
In vain the bums came down hke waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetiu, clatters, 

Tam Samsou's deadl 

Owremany a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thumiiit. 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead I 



When at his heart ha felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel aim'd heed ; 
" L — d, five !" he cry'dan' owre did stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead 1 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan 'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Bui-ns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samson'g dead t 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spiiefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch an' breed : 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead 1 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three voile-? let his mem'ry crave 

O'pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I 
Is th' wish o' monie mae than me ; 
He had twa faults, or may be three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we ; 

Tam Samson's dead I 



THE EPITAPH. 

TAM SAMSON'S weel-worn clay here lica, 

Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 
If honest worth in heaven rise 

Ye'll mend or ye win near him, 

PER CONTRA, 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' nouks o' Killie,* 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg guUie, 

Tam SaTnson's livin. 

HALLO WEEN, t 



The fi'llowins; Poem will, by many readers, he well 
enough unrjerstood ; butforthe sake of those who are 
unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the 
country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to 

* Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock, 

t Is thought tobe night when witches, devils, and oth- 
er mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their bane- 
ful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial people 
the Fairies, are said on that uight, to hold a grand au- 
niversary. 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



35 



give Bome account of the principal charms and spells 
of that night, so big with propliecy to the peasantry in 
the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into fu- 
turity makes a striking part of the liistory of human 
nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations ; and 
}t may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, 
ifany such sliould honour the author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it, among the more unenlighten- 
ed in our QV/n. 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

GOLDSMITH. 



UPON that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans* dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colemi the route is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove'\ to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night, 



Amang the bonnie winding banks, 

Where J5oonrins, wimpling clear, 
Where Bruce| ance rul'd the martial ranks. 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, counlra folks, 

Together did convene. 
To burn the nits, an' pou their stock, 

An' Iiaud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 



III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mairbraw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 

Hearts leal, an' warm an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs. 

Gar lasses' hearts gangstartin 

Whiles fast at night. 



• Certain little, romantic, rocky, green lulls, in the 
leighbour hood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas- 



tA noted cavern near Colean-hoase, called The Cove 
Colean ; wiiich, as (Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
country story fur being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

jThe famous family of that name, the ancestors ofi 
Robert, the great deliverer of lus country, were Earls i 
of Carrick. 



IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their sZocA-s* maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een' an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pow't for want o' oetter shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that nighi 



Then, straught or crooked, yird ornane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouthcrs ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them. 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 

To lie that night. 

VI. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stoZA-s o' com;t 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behhitthe iriuckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kittlin iu the fause-housej 

Wi' him that nighi. 



The auldguidwife's weel horded nits^ 
Are round an' round divided, 

*Thefirst ceremony of Halloween is, pulling eaefc a 
stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut and pull the first they meet with : 
Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic 
of the size and shape of the grand object of all their 
pells — the husband or wife. If any yzVd, orearth, stick 
to the root, that is ZocAe?-, or fortune ; and the taste of 
the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of 
the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, 
or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, 
are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and 
the christian names of the people whom chance brings 
into the house, are, accoidiug to the priority of placing 
Iherunts, the names in question. 

t They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three sev- 
eral times, a stalk of oats. If tlie third stalk wants the 
top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the 
party in question will come to the marriage-bed any 
thing but a maid. 

J When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber 
&c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an open- 
ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wiiid ; 
this he calls a.fause-house. 

§ Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them 
in tlie fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly togeth- 
er, or start from beside one another, the course aud ii- 
sue of the courtship will be. 



36 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' monie Inds' niiil lasses' fates, 

Are Oierc thai nislit decideil : 
Some kiiullc, cuutliie, side by side 

All' biini thogithcr trimly ; 
Sume start awa wi' saucie pride, 

And Jump oul-owre the chinilie 

Fu' higli that night. 

VIII. 

Jean slips In twa, wi' tcntic e'e ; 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
Dut this is Jock, an' thfs is vie, 

Sliesnvs inlohersel ; 
lie blecz'd owre her, an' she owrc him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fiift" I ho started up the lum. 

And Jeau had e'en a sair heart 

To sec't that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his boiD-kailnmt, 

Was lirunfKx' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit It burnt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swore hy jing, 

'T was Just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 



Nell had the fausehousc in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleer.o they sweetly Join, 

Ti. ■while in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dnncin at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd herbounie mou, 

^u' Cozie in the ueuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XI. 

But Merran satbehint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'cs them gashin at their craks. 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins gi-apit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue' throws then, 

Right fcar't that night. 

XII 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 
I wat (he made nae Jaukin ; 

• Whoever would, with snccess, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, 
to the (H//I, and, darkling, throw into the 7>or a clue of 
blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue otV t)\e old one ; and, 
towartlsthe latter end, something will hold the thread ; 
demand wfia fiaud.t.' i. e. who holds ? an answer will 
bo relurned from the kiln pot, by naming the Chiis 
liauaud suroauie of your futuie spouse. 



Till something held withni (he pat, 

Guid L — d I but she was qnakin I 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauken, 
Or whether it was Andrew BelJ, 

She did iia wait on lalkin 

'I'Uspier that night 

XIII. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple' at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie:" 
She fufl''t her pipe wi' sick a hint, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin. 
She nolic'l na, an a/le brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' thalnighl. 

XIV. 

" Ye little skelpie-Ummer's face I 

How daur you try sic sporlin, 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For hi;n to spae your Ibrtune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For n>onie a anc has gotten a fright, 

An liv'd on' ili'd ilelecret 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

" Ae hairst afore the Shcrra-moor, 

I mind't as weel' yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was nae past fyfleeu ; 
The simmer had been cauld an' wnt. 

An' stulV was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantinkirn we gat. 

An' Just on Ualloieeen 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fellow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wl' wean , 

That liv'd in Achmacilla : 
He gat hemp-seed,^ I mind it wcel, 

An he made unco light o't ; 

* Take a candle, and go alone to a looking glasr ; 
eat au apple before it, and some truditiouf «» v yon 
shouKf comb your hair, all the lime ; 'ht cit.eof ycur 
conjugal companion, to he, will be seeu in the glass, as 
if peeping over your shoulder. 

t Steal cut unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp 
seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can conveni- 
entlv draw afler you. Repeat now'and then, "Hemp 
seed 1 saw thee, hemp seed I saw thee ; and him (or 
her) that is to be my true love, come afler me and [kiu 
thee." Look over yonr left shoulder, and you will 8e« 
the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 
of pullmg hemp! Some traditions say, "come nfl«r 
me and sliaw thee," that is, show thyself : hi which 
case it simply ap|>ears. Others omit the harrowing, 
and &ay, " come after me, aud barrow thee." 



BURNS' POEMS. 



37 



But monie a day was by himsel, 
He was sae aairly frighted 

Tliat vera night." 

XVII. 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The aulil gnidman raug;ht down the pock, 

An' out a handful' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'mangthe folk 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that night. 

XVIII, 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something slurtin ; 
The graip he for a.}ui,rrow taks, 

An' liaurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, ho saya, 

" Ilemp-seed I Bawthee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thoc. 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' Jiis hair began to arch. 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' grunlle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

Hcroar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation I 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Orcruchie Merran llumphie, 
Till stop 1 she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Gnimjihie 

Asteer that night' 

XXI, 

Meg fain wad to the ham gaen 
To win three wechts o' nacthing ;* 

* This charm must likewise he performed unperceiv- 
ed, and alone. You go to the Afflrn, and ojien both 
doors, taking them ort' the hinges, if possible ; for there 
is danger that the being, about to appear, may shut the 
doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that in- 
ttr'.!!Tit;nt used in winnowing the corn, which, incur 
Country dialect, we ca.\\ i\ wecht ; and go through ail 
the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. 
Repeat it three times; and the third time an appari- 
tion will pass through the barn, iji at the windy door, 
and out at the other, having both the figure In qoeaiion, 
and the appearance or retinue, marking the euiploy- 
meut or station iu life. 



But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith lii : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the ftarn she seti, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannic thraw. 

An owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ration rattled up the wa', 

An' she cry'd L — d preserve her 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thrice,' 

Was timmer propl far thrawin : 
He tacks aswirlie, auld moss-oak. 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

Ail's nieveaihat night 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Lee'/ie was. 

As canty as a kiltlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrieviu, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burtif 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 

Was bent that uiqliU 

XXV. 

Wliyles owre a linn the hurnie plays. 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whylcs round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whiles in a wiel it dimijl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit undernecth the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

' Take an opportunity of going, unrotic'd, to a Biioh 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fatb- 
omof the last time, you will catch in your arms theaj* 
pearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
to a south running soring or rivulet, where "three 
lairds' lands meet," and dip your left sh.ix sleeve. 
Go to bed in sight of a tire, and hang your wet sleevs 
before it to dry . Lie awake ; and sometime near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object in ([uestion, will co.ne and turn the sleeve, 
if to dry tliu other side of it. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



XXVI. 

Amang the bracbens, on the brae, 

Betweeu her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else anoutler quey 

Gat up an gae a croon : 

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Neer lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a pkmge thtt night. 

XXYII. 

In order, on the dean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three' are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed • 
A aid uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav.'d them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till buttered so'ns,t wi' fragrant luct, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strirnt, 

They parted affcareerin 

Fu'blythe that night. 



THE AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD hURE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel 
in the New- Year. 

A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backil, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

*Tajce fnree dishes; put clean waterin one, foul 
water ill another, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand : if by chance 
in the clean water, the f\ilure husband or wife will 
come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a- 
widow; if iu the empty dish, it forelells,wiih equal cer- 
tainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
and evei")' time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. 

tSowens, with butter instead of milk to them is ^- 
ways the Halloween Supper. 



Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' eitey, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur'i to raize thee, 
Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rack, 
A_^//y buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank. 
Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

Au' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenrry, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your niiunie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er wasdonsie; 
Buthamely,tawie, quiet, au' cannie. 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, yepranc'd wi' muckle pride 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble. 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did warble. 
Far, farbehiu'. 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 
An' Btable-meals at fairs were dreigii. 
How thou waa prance, an, snore, an' skreigh. 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay'i them hollow. 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizie . 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O ' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a nohXe Jittie-Uai' , 
As e'er in tug or low was drawn 



BURNS' POEMS. 



39 



Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskil, 
But tl.yauld tail tliou wad hae whisket, 
Aa' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

"Wi' pith, an' pow'r, 
Til\ spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' tln-eaten'd labour back to keep, 
] gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 
Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing haslit, 

Thou snoov'tawa. 
My pleiigh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst: 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 
The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan'. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin. 
For my last/o«, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH 

THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. . 

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a . anic's in thy breastie I 
Thou need na start awa sac hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle'. 



I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering firt«Ze/ 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

Aa' fella w mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles,but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 1 
A daimen-icker in a Ihraue 

'S a sma' request ; 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave. 

And never miss'tl 

Thy wee bit ^oMsze, too, in ruin 1 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green t 
An' bleak December's winds eiisuin, 

Baith snell and keent 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast. 
An' coziehere, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel couWer past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's s;»ety dribble. 

An' cranreuch caiild I 

But, Mousie,thou art no thy lane, 
In \>rov'\ns, foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 

Forpromis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' mii 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear. 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pit'yless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 
Your loop'd and wmdow'd raggedness, defeud 

you. 
From seasons such as these ? — 

SHAKSFEARE. 



WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 



40 



BURNS' POEMS. 



When Phabus gies a shorl-liv'd glow'r 
Far south the lift, 

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift: 

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd 
Poor labours sweet in sleep waslock'd, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd. 

Wild-eddying swirl. 
Or tlu-o' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought rae on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O, winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 
Jjeueath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Deligbted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitterin wing. 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Ijone Iromyour savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 



Now Phcehe, in her midnight reign 
Dark mi»fl"d, view'd the dreary plain. 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole— 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust, 
i.nd freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkiudiiess, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Then hcav'n illumiu'd man on brother man bestows ! 
See stern oppression's iron grip. 

Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells tlie mournful tale. 
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear. 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hide. 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some cjarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below; 
Where, where is love's fend, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's softly brow, 

The pow'rs you proudly own 



Is there beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love pretending snares. 
This boasted honour turns away 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway. 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs 
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking 
blast 1 

Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down. 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 
Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
Wliile thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap I 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 

Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 

Guilt, erring man, relating view 

But shall thy legal rage pursue 

The wretch, already crushed low 

By cruel fortune's underserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother, to reUeve, how exquisite the bliss 1 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snac?. 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad. 

The heart, benevolent and kind, 
The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 



A BROTHER POET. 



January^— 



"WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors wi' driving suaw, 

And hiug us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse ortwa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlin juigle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live saebien an' snug: 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see theu- cui-sed pi-ide. 

* David SiUar, one of the club at Tarbollon, ftnd 
luthor of a volume of Poems ia the Scottish dialect. £. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



41 



It's hardly in s >3dy'3 pow'r, 
To keep, at limes, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant. 

And keu na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our diiily bread. 

As lang's we're hale and fier : 
•' Mair spier na', nor fear na, "* 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warsto't. 

Is ouly for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is doubtless, great distress I 
Yet then content could mak us blest ; 
Ev'nthen, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nac sma ; 
Nae mair then, w'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 

What tho',inie commoners of air. 
We wander out, we know not where. 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year : 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne r/iyme till't, we'll time till't 
And sing when we hae done. 



It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's uo in mankin muckle nuxir : 
It's no in books; it's no inlear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 

But never can be blest: 



Ramsay. 



Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang j 

The heart ay's the part ay. 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 



Think ye, that sic as you and I 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 

Wi' never-ceasing-toil ; 
Think ye, ar' we less blest then they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress 1 
Or else, neglectmg a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 
Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell I 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' anidletule I 



VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken our=el : 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 

Tho' losses, and crosses. 
Be lessons right severe, 

There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'U find nae other where. 



VIII. 

But tent me Davie, ace o' hearts \ 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy j 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' thepleasureso^ thefieart. 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jea7i ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above I 
O T7iou, whose very self art love/ 

Thou know'st my words sincere I 
The life-blood streaming thro' my hear', 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



When hairt-corrodiug care audgiief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
Aiul solaife to my breast. 
Thou lieing, Ail-sceiiig, 

O bear my lerveiil pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
TV'y most peculiar care 1 

X. 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
•J'he smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fflte still has bless'd me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
Jt lightens, it brightens 
The teucbrilic scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davis oruiy Jean. 

XI. 

O how that name inspires my style I 
The worils come skelpin rank and fdo, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rias as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 

And then he'll hilch, and stilt and jimp, 

An' rin an unco fit : 

But least then, the best then, 

Should rue this hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dightnow 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY TIIRUNFORTUNATE ISSUE 
OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 



Alas 1 how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo ! 
HOME. 



O TtTOU pale orb, that silent shines, 
While cure-untroubled mortals sleep I 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

Wilh wo I nightly »isil« keep, 
Beueulli thy wau uuwarming beam ; 



And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 

I joyleas view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r. Remembrance, cease 1 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace I 

III. 

No idJy-feign'd poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lameiuings claim. 
No shepherd's i)ipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The pliglitod faith ; the nmtual (lame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 
The promised father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love I 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown 
How have 1 wish'd for fortune's charms. 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it I is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan i 

And is she ever, ever lost i 

V. 

Oh I can she bear so base a heart 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part. 

The ])lighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas 1 life's path may be unsmocth 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress I 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass, 

Kiiraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast. 

My fondly- treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void. 

For her too scanty once of room 1 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom I 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awake me up to toil and wo ; 
I see the hours in long array. 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe. 

Keen recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soid, ere riin>buB, low. 

Shall kiss (he distant, western main , 



BURNS' POEMS. 



43 



VIII. 

And when my nighlly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
Wv toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright t 
Ev'n day, ull-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

O ! thou bright queen who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway I 
Clft has thy silent-markingglance 

Observ'd us, fondly-waad'ring, stray I 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

Wlxile love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set : 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again 1 burn 1 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll moura 

A faitlUess woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY, 



I. 



OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear 
I sit me down and sigh : 
O life I thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I I 
Dim backward as 1 cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear 1 
Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er, 

13ut with the closing tomb 1 

II. 

F>appy, ye sons of busy life, 
Whoeijual to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
E'en when the wished end's dcny'd, 



Yet while the busy means arc ply'd, 

They brhig their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandou'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain : 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his uewly-gather'd Iruils, 

lieside his crystal well 1 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ruig, mcand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footsteep trac'd. 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky momeut to improve, 
Atidjunt to stop, a.iid Just to move, 

With self-i-especting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, aud joys 

Which 1 too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here. 
At perfidy iiigrate ! 



Oh ! enviable, early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's raaz«. 

To care, to guilt unknown I 
How ill exchang'd for riper times. 
To teeitne follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

I>ike linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish I 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage t 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Ofdira-declining age 



44 



BURNS' POFMS. 



WINTER. 



THE wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and suaw : 
Wliile tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day, 

II. 

• The sweepingblast, the sky o'ercast,'* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My gi-iefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 
Their fate resembles mine. 

. III. 

Thou PowW Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Tky Will I 
Then all I want (0, do thou gi-ant 

Th'S one request of mine ! ) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO R. A * * • *, ESQ.. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 

GRAY. 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 

With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequester 'd scene ; 

Th-J native feehugs strong, the guileless ways : 



What A* * ** in acottagciwould have been , 
Ah ! tho' liis worth unknown, far happier there I 
wecu. 



II. 



Noveinber chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

Theshort'ning wintei'-day is near a close : 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; 
Tiie toil-worn Cotter, frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping tho TOorn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hamcwarj 
bend. 



III. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro* 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise au glee. 
His wee bii ingle, blinkin bonnily. 

His clean heart stane, his thriftie tcife's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some heard, some tentie ria 

A cannie errend to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

Inyouthfu' bloom, love sparkling inhere'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new grown, 

Or deposit her sair-won peuny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joyunfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; 
The social hours, swift -wing'd uunotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



VI. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younkersa' are warned to obey ; 
" An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight to junk or play : 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind jour duty, duly, morn an' night I 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright !" 



BURNS' POEMS. 



45 



VII. 



But hark 1 a rap comes gently to the door : 

Jenny ^ wha kens the meanuigo' the same, 
Tells howaneeborladcam o'erthe moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her harae. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny^s e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

'W)i\\&Jeimy haflUus is afll'raid to speak ; 
Wee] pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 



VIII. 

Wi' kmrtly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A sirappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 

But blate andlaithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
Tlie mother, wi' a woman's wiles can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an sae grave ; 
Wael pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 



IX. 

happy love ! where love like this is found I 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare I 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage erperience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a you tliful, loving, modest pair, 

In others arms breath out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'uing 
gale." 



X. 



Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth 1 
That can, with studied, sly, ensuai-ing art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on hia perjur'd arts I dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents londling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the rum'd maid, and their distraction 
wild ? 



XI. 



But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesomcjjarrjicA, chief o' Scotia's (ood : 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in complimentalmood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
Ai.' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmoad auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 



XII. 

The cheerfa' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle, form a circle wide J 
The sire turns o'er wi' iiatriarchal grace. 

The higha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care j 
And'*Z/eJu« worship God !" he says, with solemn air, 

XIII. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise : 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 
Or noble Elgin beats theheav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 

How Abram was the friend of God oa Ixigh ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning he 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or, Job's patlietic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt /s^jftA's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre, 

XV. 

Perhap-t the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed i 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name ; 

Had not on earth whereon to lay hia head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many aland i 
How he who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great ZJai'Zo^'sdoomprouounc* 
ven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal Rmg, 

The saint, the father, and ihe husband ^ra.ya : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,*" 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Crca.'or's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While chxling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pnde. 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
I 'Pope's Windsor Forest. 



46 



BURNS' POEMS. 



When men display to congi-egations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry giace, except the heart I 

The Pow'r, iucens'd, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

Hut haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII. 

Tlien homeward all tak off their sev ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clara'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 

For them and fcr their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts wilh grace divine preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's gi-andeur springs, 

That makes herlov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest raan'sthe noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The corra°'e leaves the joo^ace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 

Disguising of the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, iu wickedness refiu'd I 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and Bweet con- 
tent 1 
And O 1 may HeavenHheir simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile I 
Then, howe'er crowns and coroners be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
^nd stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace''s undaunted heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
I) never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still \.\\epatriot, and i\i% patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard I 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 



WHEN chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 



One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with yean, 

And hoary was his hair. 



II. 



" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?*• 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step ccnstrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, wilh me, torooura 

The miseries of man 1 

III. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary wintei-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry tune has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

" man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time 1 
Alispending all thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious youthful prime I 
Alternate folhes take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

V. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime I 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to bis kind, 

Suj^ported in his right : 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want. Oh I ill matcb'd pnit, 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

" A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think, not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary Ufe this lesson learn, 

That man was made to i 



VII. 



' Many and sharp the num'rous ill* 
luwoven with our frame ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



47 



Mure pointed still we make ourselves, 
Kegret, remorse, and shame 1 

And man, whose heaven-erected face 
The smiles of love adorn, 

Man's inhumanity to man 
Makes countless thousands mourn I 

VIII. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

?o abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellaw-wonn 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

" If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,- 

By nature's law design'd. 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 



" Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last,' 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that rnourn 

XI. 

" O death ! the pool man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with iliee at rest I 
The gi-eat, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

Prom pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh! abless'd relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn !" 



PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT 

OF 

DEATH. 

I. 

O THOtI unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear I 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perha ps I must appear ! 



II. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 



III. 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ningto their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 



IV. 

Where liuman weakness has come short. 

Or frailty slept aside. 
Do thou All-Good! for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 



V. 

Where with intentionl have err'd. 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighleth to forgive. 



STANZAS 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I 30 found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing stormjj 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence!*' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But,'should my Author health again dispense. 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray : 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mouisn'd, yet to temptation ran? 

O thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a liftedeye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in tli' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divinel 



48 



BURNS' POEMS. 



LYING. »T A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE 
ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT 

THE FOLLOWING VERSE > 

IN THE ROOM VyTIERE HE SLEPT. 



O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above I 

I know thou wilt me hear : 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire— the mortal stroke, 
jLiong, long, be pleas VI to spare ! 

y o bless his little filial flock, 
Andsiiow what good men are. 

HI. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes an fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears 1 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 

Up to a parent's wish I 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band 

"With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps ahvay : 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'erlife's rough ocean driv'n. 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

THE man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happinsss in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful piide 

Casts forth his eyes abroad. 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 



The fruitful top iS- spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the gi'ound be ca;t, 

And like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'u them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed tliat wickedTtien 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 



UNDER THE PRESSURE OP VIOLENT 
ANGUISH. 

O THOU Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to kuow : 
Yet sure 1 am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring ray soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath I 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death I 

But If I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine 1 

THE " 
FIRST SIX VERSES OP THE NINETIETH 

PSALM 

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race 1 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place 1 

Before the mountains heav'd their headj 

Beneath thy forming hand. 
Before this pond'rous globe itself, 

Arose at thy command : 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbegiuning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



48 



Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

l8 to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, »' Ye sous of tnen, 

Return ye into nought !" 

TIiou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
J, s witli a flood tliou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning fiow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere niglit cut down it lies 
J All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH IN APRIL 1786. 

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an .evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Tliy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonoie gem. 

Alas ! it's fto thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet I 

Wi' spreckled breast. 
When upward-springing, biythe to greet 

The purplmg east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'riug woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Idornsthe histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There in thy scanty mantle clad, 
/hysnawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
.f hou lifts tliy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the s^are uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet/o!i>'rerof the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she. like thee, all soil'd is laid 

Low i'lhe dust. 



Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Oi prudent lort 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm Lim o'er i 

Such fate ot suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n, 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven 

He, ruin'd, sinx! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fato 
Tlial fate is thine — no distant date; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 



I. 



ALL hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall 1 
Thy cruel wo-deliglited train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
Withstern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The s^orm no more I dj-ead ; 

Tho' thick'ning and black'ning. 

Round my devoted head. 



II. 



And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a ji/erisMre can afford. 

Oh I hear a wretch's pray'r; 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care ! 
Wlien shall ray soul in silent peacCi 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbing cease, 
Cold mould 'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L— , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR' 
I GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. 

I AGAIN the silent wheels of time 
>-, Their annual round have driv'n. 



so 

Andjou, Iho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are BO much nearer Ilcav'u. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts, 

The infaut year to hail ; 
I send you more than Indian boasts, 

In Edwin's sunple talc. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



I LANG hae thoiight, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ! 
But bow the subject-theme may gang 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a tang 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



II. 



Ye'U try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad, 

And mu.;kle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'nwhen your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Wbenev'rj nei-veis strained, 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, hardcu'd wicked, 
Whahae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
Butoch! maukind are tmco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

IV. 

Yet '.hey wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Tkisir fate we should nae censure, 
For s^Ul th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neeDor's part, 

Yet has nae cash to spare him. 



Ay (iree, afthan' your story tell, 
Wieu wi' a bosom crony ; 



Cut still keep something to yourtfc 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other maOf 

Wi' sharpeu'd, slee inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd lert, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
Cut never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it t 
I wave the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeUng ! 

VIL 

To catch dame Fortune's golden UBtw* 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gathorgear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour : 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Or being independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip. 
To baud the wretch m order ; 

But where ye feel your Ao/wur grip, 
Let that ay be your border ; 

Its slightest touches, instant pause- 
Debar a' side pretences ; 

And resolutely keep its laws 
Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creatorto revere. 

Must sure become the creature ; 
Cut still the preaching cant forbear. 

And ev'n tlie rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity ofl'ended ! 

X. 

When ranting round in pleasure's riag, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
r if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempesl-drif'u, ^ 

A conscience but a canker— 
A correspondence flx'd wi' Heav'u, 

Is sure a noble anchor! 

XI. 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 
your heart can ne'er be wanting : 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



51 



May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undauiUiiig ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed, 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you belter reck Ihcrede, 

Than ever ilid Ih' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' YE whalire by soups o' drink, 
A' yc wlia live by crambo-cliiik. 
A' ye wha live and never think. 

Come mourn \vi' mo I 
Our billie 'a gien us a' a jink, 

Au'owre thesea. 

Lament him a' ye ratin core, 
IVha dearly like a random- splore, 
#ftte mair he'll join the nierry-roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore. 

An' owre the sea. 

fhe bonnio lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their iXe&r petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 
Wi' tearfu' e'e. 
For weel I wat they 'llsairly miss him. 

'i'httt'e owre theoea. 

Fortune, they hae room to grumble ? 
Badstthou ta'en air some drowsy bummle, 
WTha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been, nae plea ; 
fiut he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' slain them wi' the eaui, saut tear ; 
■Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
lie was her laureate monie a year, 

That's ovine the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-toest 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A. jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be 1 
Co, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
<o, row't his hurdles in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

ITe ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
fet coin his pouches w ad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it new was under hiding ; 

Uc dealt it IVeu : 



The muse was a' tliat he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
An' hap him in a cazic bid : 
Ye'll find liim ay a dainty chiel, 

Andfou' o' glee ; 
fle wad na wrang'd tlie vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Farcwcel, my rhyme-composing billie I 
Your native soil was right ill«willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 
FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
G«-eat chieftain o' the puddin-race I 
Aboonthem a' ye tak your place. 

Painch, tripe, or tolrmi 
Weel are ye worthy of a grace 

As lang's ray arm. 

The gi'oaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdles like a distant hill. 
Your ^in wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' yovvr pores the dews distU 

Like amber bead.. 

His knife see rustic labour dight. 
An' cut you up with ready slight, 
Treiichiiig your gushing entrails briijht 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorinua sight 

Warmreekin, rich I 

Then horn for horn thoy strotch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

ArebcntlikedruragJ 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bet/iankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi'i)erfectsconner, 
fjooks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feekless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle shank a guid whip lash. 

His nieve a nit; 
Thro' bloody flosd or field to dash, 

O how unfit 1 

I'ut mark the rustic, hagsis-fed, 
The trembling eartii resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

Uti'llmakit vhisile; 



52 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thissle. 

Te pow'rs, wha mak manmnd your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

Tiiat jaups in luggies 
But,ifyewishhergratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Hagsis ! 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAVIN HARHLTON, ESQ. 

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' gi-eat an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mouy a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do. Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laight I needna bow. 
For, Lord be Ihankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord, be thankit, lean beg ; 
^ae I shall say, an' that's nae fiatt'riu, 
It 'b iust sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some g-i de angel help him, 
Jr else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done yst, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie , come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allaw'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be, 

I readily and freely gi-ant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's nobis ain he winna tak it. 
What ance he says he winna break it : 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft hisguidnessis abus'd : 
And rascals whyles that do him wi-ang, 
Ev'en that, he does na mind it laug : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, ua thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature. 
Ye'Il get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos audpasan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 



That he's the poor man's friend in nefd. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tton ; 
It's just a carnal incUiiation. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast eiain I 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust la 
In Tnoral mercy, truth, and Justice \ 

No — stretch a point to catch a placX ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' z.winnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor hke onie whunstane, 
And baud their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, zXxq^Xq sound helieving. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile grace* 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry facea j 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groaoj 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of C-?»^, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror I 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
,^ust frets till Heav'n commission gsM >i< 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans. 
And strikes the ever deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groanel 

Your pardon. Sir, for tliis digreaaio3, 
I malst forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my work I did review. 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them sometliing likeyouras'. 

Then patronise them wi' your (avour. 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's growlini, bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the ClerkI 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart 1 
May K******'s far honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till H*****'*'s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



53 



F'lTe boncie lassei round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual raya« 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow i" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
Butwhilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favotira, 
\ am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes, and black mischanees, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your hurnhle servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor I 
But by a poor man's hopes in Ileav'n I 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master deir, 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir. your band— my /rzerao and brother! 



TO A LOUSE. 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET 
AT CHURCH. 

HA I whare ye'gaun, ye crowlin ferlie I 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fetr ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepia, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
liow dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
t somewhere else and seek your dinner 
Ou some poor Dody. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and sprawj, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kuxdred, jumpin cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now baud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yetl ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on i% 



The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

0' Miss'sboMUt. 

My sooth ! right baidd ye set your roic bxA, 
As plump and gra/as onle grozet ; 
O for some rank, murcuriel rozet. 

Or fell, red irB«iium, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad drets your drcddum. 

I wad ua been aurcris'd to spy 
You on an auld -wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblius some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi.' fie. 

How dare ye do't I 



O Jenny, dinnitoss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread 1 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's maUa I 
Thae tehiks andjiiiger-ends, I dread, 
Are notice takin I 



O wad some pow'r the giftie gie u» 
To see oursels as others see us J 
It wad frae monie ft blunder free at 

A ndfoolisn notion : 
WI at airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 
And ev'n Devotion I 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH, 



I. 



EDINA ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palMes ai^d tow'rs, 
Where once benesth a monarch's tee% 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From maiking wildly-scatter'd flow're 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, iKe fiug'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



II. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy Sens, Edin» •o«sal. kind. 
With open arms the stranger hail ; 

Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind I 
Above the narrow, rural vale | 



54 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
Or modest merits' siient claim ; 

And never may their sources fail I 
And never envy blot their naiae 1 



Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy 1 
Fair B— strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I Bee the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine I 



There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vel'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous walls and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'dthe invader's shock. 



W\th awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Pam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas I how chang'd the times to come I 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam I 

Tho' ngid law cries out, 'twas just ! 



Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have left their shed. 
And fac'd giim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers leu ! 



EJina 1 Scotia's darling seat 1 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reigupow'rs >. 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on thebaalis of Ayr I stray 'd. 
And singing, loue, the ling'riug hours, 

i shelter in thy honour'd sluide. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 
APRIL Isl, 1785. 

WHILE briers and woodbines budding greeDf 

An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an xmknovin frieo', 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin. 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockLn ; 
And there was muckle fun an' jokin. 

Ye need na doubt | 
At length we had a harty yokin, 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang ajnang the rest, 
Aboon theiC - it pleased me best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife t 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel* 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, «• Can this V* Pope, or Steele, 

PrBeattie's wark?» 
They taldme 'twas an odd kind chiel 

• About Muirkirk, 

It pat me fidgin-faiu to heai 't, 
And sae about him there I spier't 
Then a' thatken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't. 

It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale. 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' Bangs he'd made himsel, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should paw my plengh and graith, 
Or die a cadger powuie's death. 

At some dyke-baek, 
A pint an' gUl I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Araaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle foil, 

Tho' rude an' rongb. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel. 

Does welleneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense. 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
I An' hae to learning nae pretence, 
' Yet, what the mattery 



BURNS' POEMS. 



5S 



Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I iiiigle alher. 



Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wiia ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To make a sang i" 
Cut, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
I'f honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars : 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Orkisappin hammers. 

A set o' dul! conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes I 
They gca^g in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to clirr.b Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
Thai's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' ndra 

Atpleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' haraely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright lapraik's my friend to be. 

If I can hit it I 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could ret it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are £ew, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no Insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true. 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to teJl ; 

But friends, and folk that wish nje well. 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Tho' I maun own, as raonie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses— Gude forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
^lay be some ither tUng they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

Cut Mauchline race, or Muckline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
Wfc'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hac a sv/ap o' rhymin-ware 

Wi' aneanitheif. 



The four-gill chap, we'sc gar himclattcr, 
An'kirsen him wi' reekin water; 
Syne we'll sit down an' (ak ourwhitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa , ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-lhe-plackt 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor bear you crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on tlie terms. 

Each aid the others' 
Come to my bowl, coi'.e to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers . 

But to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle. 

Your friend and servant* 



TO THE SAME. 



APRIL 21st, 17S5. 

WHILE new-ca'd kye r<iut at the stake, 
An' powniea reek in plough or braik. 
This hour on e'enia's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' tlie corn out-owre the rigs. 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkart muse sair pI^adB and begs 

I would na write. 
Thetapetlessramfeezl'd hizzie. 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Q,uo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sue busy, 

This month an' mair, 
Thattrouthmyheadis grown right dizzie 

An' something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I," ye thowlessjadi 
I 'U write, an' that a hearty blaud. 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king 3' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms so friendly 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tetye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

Au' thauk him kindly !" 

Sae I gat paper in al/Iiitk, 
All' down gaed stumpie lu the ink : 
Uuoth I, " Before I sleep a wiuk, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winnamak it clink, 

By jove I'll prose it 1' 

4ae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
lu rhyme or prose, or baiih thegither, 
Or 6ome hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak' proof ; 
but I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grud;;e an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use yo\i bard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorlarul harp 

Wi' gleesome touch I 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp : 
She'sbut ab-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg. 
Sin' 1 could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg 
Wi' lyartpow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow 1 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the hramer 

Frae year to year s 
But yet, despite the kittle kimraer, 

/, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Genl, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame. 
In some bit brugh to reoresent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks liimsel nae sheep shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets all" are ta'en, 

As by he walks ? 

" O Tftou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !" 

Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks toHeaVn ! that's no the gate 
We learn c ir creed. 



For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race t)eg«u 
" The social, friendly, honest roaa, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils ^eat Nature's plan. 

An' none but *«*-' 

O mandate glorious and divine 1 
The ragged followers of the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious hgbt, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as uighU 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soij 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Bums arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sino' their pleasures, hopes, an' joys 
In some mild sphere 
Still closer knit in friendship's tie 

Each passmg year. 



TO W. S ♦*♦*♦!;, 

OCHILTREE. 



May.lTSS. 



I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gi-atefu' heart 1 thank you brawlic ; 
Tho' I maun say't I wad be silly, 
An' unco vain, 
Should I believe my coaxin' billie. 

Your flatteriaatrun. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

Oa my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phrasln' terms ye've penn'd it 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel 
Should I but dare a hope to speel 
Wi' Allen or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' feme ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel 

A deathless name. ' 

(0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whuustane hearts. 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry I 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cattes. 

Wad stow'd liis pactrv JJ 

, Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 
Or lasses gie ray heart a screed. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



57 



As whyles they're like to be my deed, 
(O sad disease !) 

I kittie lip my ru^c reed ; 

1* gies me ease.' 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
ChieJs wha their chanters winna hain, 
But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while. 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Dr whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besoutii Magellan. 

Ramsny an' famous Fergusson 
.ed Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings. 
While Irwin, Latgar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
Nae body sings. 

Th' TlUssv.s, Tiber, Thames, Viw' Seine, 
fjlide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But Willie, set your fit to mine, 

All cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll singauld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
fler banks an' braes, her dens and dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
^ft bure the gree, as stoi-y tells, 

Frae soulhrcn billies. 
At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-iide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side. 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 

O, Swset are Coila's haughs an* woods, 
When linlwhites chant amaug the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whide, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hiiis of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Dr blinding drifts wild-funous nee, 

Daik'ning the day I 

O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
I'o fbCiing, pensive hearts hae caarms ! 
Wliether the simmer kincily warms, 

WiMif<>9.n'UsW, 
t»r wiuier now»s, in gusiy storms, 

The lang, dark night 1 



The Muse, nae poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel, he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think laag; 
sweet! to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treaaa»«- 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither ( 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd toither: 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal t 

Wliile highlandmen hate tolls and taie« ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braiies : 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 
lu Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

MY memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New-Light,* 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae beeu 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callan 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
Tiiey took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie 1 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallana* 
Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 



C 2 



' Sec note, page 1 



68 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tor 'twnB tlie nukl moon lurn'd a. neuk, 
An outo* sight, 

An' backlina-comin, to the Ictik, 

She grew mair bright. 

This WBB (leny'd, it Wfts afllrm'd ; 
The hcrdB an' hisBcls were alarm'd : 
The rev 'rend gray -beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

Tliat beardless laddies 
Phoiild think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddic*. 

Frae leas to malr It gacd to sticks ; 
Frac words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' inonic a fallow gal his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunl ; 
An' some, to learn thcm(ur their tricks. 

Were hang'd un' burnt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light cad<lie8 bure sic hands, 
That faith tlic youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble slmnks, 
The lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But newii^ht herds gat sic a cowc. 
Folk thought them ruiu'd slick-an'stowc, 
Till now amaisl on cv'ry knowe, 

Ve'll find ane i)lac'd ; 
An' some, their new-tinht fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld^light flocks ore bleatin ; 
Thfeir zealous herds arc vex'd an' swealin ; 
Alysel, I've even seen them grcctin 

Wi' girnin sijite, 
To hear the moon sae eadly liu'd on 

I5y word un' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Borne auld-lig/U herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in tilings they ca' balloons, 
To tak a flight. 
An' stay a month amang the mnom 

An' see Ihom right. 

Quid observation they will gie them, 
An' when the auldmoon'e gaun tolea'e them, 
The hind:no8t shaird, they'll fetch it wl' them 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies sec them, 

I think they'll crouch I 

Sde, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a " muoushine mutter ;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tul/.ie, 
I hope, wc bardies ken seme belter 

Than mind sic bruhie. 



EPISTLE TO J. R+*+*** 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 



O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted, U* 
The wule o' cocks for fun an' driiikia 



There's mony godly folks are tlilnkin^ 

Your dreams" au' tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin. 

Straight toauldNlck't. 

Ve hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked drunken rants. 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts. 

An' fdl them fuu ; 
And then their failuigs, flaws, an wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare It I 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it 
Spare 'I for their sakes wha uffen wear it. 

The lads in ftZacA/ 
But your curst wit, when it comes near It, 

Rivcs.'t aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithlng. 
Its just the bluc'gown badge an' clailhing 
O' saunts ; tak that, yc lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Prac ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you home some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hat au hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon »ans,\ yc'll sen't wi' cannic care. 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing J 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wmg t 
I've play'd mysel a bounic spring. 

An' danc'dmy Cli i 
I'd better eane an' sair'd the king. 

At Bunker's UiU. 

'Twas ac night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought apaitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen. 
And, as the twilight was begun. 

Thought nane wad kcD. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt : 
I slraiket it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-care I 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale afTair. 

Some anld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen hn<l got a shot ; 
1 was suspected for the plot : 

I Bcorn'd to h» 
So gat tho wliissle o' my groat. 

An* pay't the fe*. 



* A certain humorous rfrcam of his was then niakinj 
a noise in the couniry-slde. 



t A 8071^ he had promised the Author, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



59 



Out, by my gun o' guns the vvaie, 
All' by my pouther an' my bail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, . 

I TOW an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For Ihia, niest year. 

Aa Boon's the clockln-time is by, 
An' the wee pouis begun to cry, 
L— <1, I'se hae sportin by ami by, 

Fur my gowd guinea : 
Tlio' I should herd the bUckukin kye 

For'tin Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame 1 
'Twas neither broken wing nor Uinb, 
Cut twa-threo draps about the wiune 

Scarce thro' the fcatlicrs ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim 

An' tliolc their blethers I 

It pits me ay aa mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nao mair ; 
But penwjwort/ia again is fair. 

When time's expedient: 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your sacBl obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 

A BALLAD. 
I. 

f [lERE were three kings into the cast, 
Three kings both great and high. 

An' they hae sworn a aolenin oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



II. 



Tlmy took a plough and plough'd him down, 

I'ul clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly ov 

And thow'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surprised theffi all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His heud wcel arm'd wi' poiutPAl spears. 

That no one should him wrong. 



* This la partly composed on the plan of an old song 'Twill make a man forget his wo 
kttowji by Uie same name. 'Twill heighten nil b.-* 'ff i 



V. 

The sober autumn entor'd mild. 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bendiugjoints and drooping heai 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

Ilis colour sicken'd more and more, 

lie faded into age ; 
And then his enemies bigan 

To show their deadly rage 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weapon lang and sharp, 

And cut him l)y the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

VIII. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgoll'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before thestoritti 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They fill'd up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

X. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work hlio farther wo, 
And still as sign of life appcar'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

XI. 

'I'hey wasted, o'er a scorching flaml 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all 

For he crush'd him between two stonw. 

XII. 

And they hae la'on hia very heart's 'Mood, 
And drank >» round atd round ; 

And still tne more and more they drank, 
Their Joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage »i»e. 

XIV. 



BURNS» POEMS. 



'Twill make the wdcw's lieart to sing, 
Tho' the tear were iu her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us toast Ji in tiarleycom, 

£ach raau a glass in hand ; 
And may hie great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT. 



Tune—" Gillicrankie.' 



I. 



WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood. 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Witnin America, man : 
Then up they gat the maslcin-pat, 

Aud in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Thau quite refuse our law, man. 



II. 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

1 wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Zjowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amaug liis eu'mies a', man. 

Ill 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston fut,', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er tlie knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New-york, wi' knife an' fork. 

Sir-loin be hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till FraserhriMt did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, tnan, 
Comwallis fought as lang's he dcught, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
Ind Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

T'ne German cliief to ihraw, man : 



For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Cliarlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his, tinkler jaw man. 

VI. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up hiscbeeK, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jaj-ring noise, 

They did his measui-es thraw, man. 
For North an' Fox united stocks. 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 



vir. 

Then cluba an' hearts were Charlie's cartct 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace, o{ Indian race. 

Led him a ssiir faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham''s ioy^id ca',man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

"Up, Willie, waur them a', man !' 

VIII. 

Behind the throne then Grenvile's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Ce-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith| 

(Inspired bardies saw man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry 'd, " IR/^te, rise 1 

Would I hae fear'dthem a', man ?" 

IX. 

But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co, 

Gowff'd yVilHe like a ba', inan. 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him ma raw, man ; 
An' CaZedon threw by the drone, 

An' didher wliittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid iu law man. 

***** 



SONG. 

Tune—" Com rigs are hoimU.'* 

I. 

IT was upon a Lamrnas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'I'illjtwppn the Inteand early ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



61 



Wl' ima' persuanions she agreed, 
^ « see me thro' the barley. 

II. 

Tne sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shilling clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken't her heart was a' my aiu ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley, 

III. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon ahd stars so bright, 

That shoae that hour so clearly 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs c' barley. 

IV. 

I nae heenb'.ythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear ; 

I hae been happy thinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Com rigs, an' barley rigs, 
An' com rigs are bonnie : 
I'll ns'er forget tliat happy night, 
Amang tha rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune—" Ihad a horse Ihadnaemair." 
I. 

Now westhn winds, and slaught'ringguus 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather ; 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night. 

To muse upon my charmer. 

ir. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 
The plover loves the mountains ; 



The woodcock hamits the lonely dells 
The soaring hern the fountains : 

Thro' lofty groves the chushat roves, 
The path of man to shun it ; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 

Thus ev'rykind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social joy, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman' joy, the murd'ring cry. 

The flutt'ring gory pinion 1 

IV. 

But Peg-^ dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Tluck flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee deai-ly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



SONG. 

TUNE—" My Nannie, OJ 
I. 

BEHIND you hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mangmoorsand mosses .many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 



II. 



The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baith mairk an' rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll stea., 

Au' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

in. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' youn 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 



Originally, Stincher. 



62 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Mayillbefa' theflatterin? tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, 0. 



IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonuie, O : 

The op'uing gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is th&u Nannie, O, 

V. 

A country lad is my degree, 
An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a' 's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

VII. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh. 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O, 

vm 

Come weelj come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' ni3, D ; 

Naeither care in life have I, 
But live, an luve my Nannie O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest iiours that e'er I spend. 

Are spent among the lasses, O I 



THERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signWes the life o' man. 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O, 

Green grozo, fyc. 



II. 



The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Theirhearts can ne'er enjoy them, O, 
Green grow, Sfc. 



III. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arras about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 

May a' gae tapsalteerie, ! 

Green grow, ^a. 

IV. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'er nought but senseless asses, ! 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, S^c. 



Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, ^e> 

***** 



TUNE— " Jockey's GreyBreeka 
I. 

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 



CHORUS.* 



And maun I still on Mem.e\ doat 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e! 

For u'sjet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be J 



II. 



In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and theliiitwhite sing. 

And Tnaun I stil 



III. 



The merry plouguboy cheers his team, 

Wi' joy tne ter.tie seedsman, stalks, 
But life to me 's a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

Andmaun I still, Sfc, 

' This chorus is part of a song composed by a gen- 
tleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the au- 
thor's. 

t Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamnt 



BURNS' POEMS 



The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the duckling cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I, 

AndTnaun lstill,SfC. 



The sheep-herd sleeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandring step 
I met him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, ifc, 

VI. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 

Blythe waukeusbythe daisy's side. 
And mounts and signs on flittering wings, 

A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun I still, fyc, 

VII. 

Come, Winter, with ihine angry howl, 
And raiging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me 1 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's inker e'e I 

Fur it's jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be,' 



SONG. 



TUNE— «' Roslin Castle." 



I. 



THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast. 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
1 see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
Wnile here 1 wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks o{ Ayr, 



* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of 
our bard, and more especially those printed under his 
own direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, 
which is not of his own composition, sliould be attached 
to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the 
train of sentiment which thev excite. E. 



II. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning com 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonuie banks of Ayr. 

in. 

•Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wouad 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave thebonnie banks of ^yr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy rovea, 
Pursuing past, uuliappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes I 
My peace with these, my love with t 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of ^^, 



SONG. 

TUNE-" GuUderoy." 
I. 

FROM thee Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more 1 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine the latest sigh I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE FAREWELL 



TO THE 

BRETHREN OFST. JAMES's LODGE 

TARBOLTOX. 

TTTNE— " Goodnight, and joy be wi' you a' !'• 

I. 

ADIEU, a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the ntystic tye ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten d few. 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pu'suing Fortune's slidd'ry ba' 
W"ith melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll raiud you still, tho' far awa'. 

II. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive uighl ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw 1 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa,' 

111. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite us in the gra/id design. 
Beneath th' omuiscieut eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by thep/i/mmet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Siiallbe my pray'r when far awa'. 

lY, 

And you farewell ! whose merits claim, 
I J ustly , that highest badge to wear ! 
Ileav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, Ae Bard that's far atoa. 



SONG. 



TUNE—*' Prepare, my dear brethren, to the Tarern 
let's fly." 



No cnurAman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 



No sly man of business eontrinng a snar«, 
For a big-belly 'd bottle's the whole of my curt. 



The peer 1 don't eavj, I give him hii bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 



Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his ptiree i 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 



The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomn» proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stain. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

"Life's cares they are comforts,"*— a maxim laid 

down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black 

gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compnss and square 
Ha?e a big-belly'd bottle w^hen harass'd with care. 

WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ox NITfl-SIDE. 

THOU whom chance may hither lead,— 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance. 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 

' Young's Night Thoughts. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



65 



Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's :neridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summit wouldst thou scale ? 
Check ihy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought \ 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate. 
The grand criterion of bis fate, 
Is not, Art thou so high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on theirmind. 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. 
Might, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide I 
Q,uolh the beadsman of Nlth-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OF . 

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden withuuhouour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curae 1 



STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace I 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'dto aaTS, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting r«tt I 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither benda.) 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tisthy trusty quorvdammate, 
Do^om'd to share thy fiery fate. 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

^ And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail. 
Omnipotent as he 'n here ? 
O, bitter mock 'ry of Xhe pompous bier. 
While down the wretched vital part \a driv'nl 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear| 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



Capt. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 

FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY 

FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But now his radient course is run, 
For Mathew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'uly Light ! 

O DEATH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody I 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hideSf 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ? 

He's gane, he'sgaen! he's frae ust«m, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born I 
Thee, Matthew, nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, • 

Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers I 
Come join, ye Nature's stuitiiest bairns. 

My wailing numbers. 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens I 
Ye hai'lly shaws and briery dens I 
Ye burns, whimpUu down your glens, 

Wi' loddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasiy stens, 

Frixe lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud j 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clad ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring pairick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals. 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow 'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your ainuial way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
TellUiae farwarlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bowV, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn I 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year I 
Ilk cowslip cup shall keep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 



Thy gay, green flow'ry tresses shear. 

For him that's dead I 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy swallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've loet I 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light 1 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn I 
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ; the man I the brother I 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever I 
And hast thou crostthat unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound I 
Like thee where shall I fiml another, 

The world around f 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state 1 
But by the honest tiu-f I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in eartk. 



THE EPITAPH. 

STOP, passenger I my story's brief ; 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast. 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thouanoblesodger art, 

Thatpassest by this grave, man, 
There moulders here agallant heart ; 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise. 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa,' 
For Matthew was a kind man I 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy aiu. 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



67 



This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whinginsot, 

To olame poor Maltliew dare, man 
May dool and sorrow be his lot. 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 

OP 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And sjjreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phccbus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
lii love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care aor thrall opprest. 

Nowblooms thelilyby the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the dueen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the dneen o' bnnnie Prance, 

Wiiere happy I haebeen ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn. 

As blytlie lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's p'tying e'e. 



My son t my son ! may kinder stars 
Upon thy fortune shine * 



And may those pleasures gild thy reign^ 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me 1 

O 1 soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn 1 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful gi-ave ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 

OP FINTRA. 

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg apass for leave to bes ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I compla.n. 
The lion and the bull tliy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground ; 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his cell.— 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.— 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child— the Bard I 
A thing uuteachable in world's skill. 
And half a idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears th' unbrokeablast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame i 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stuug ; 



BURNS' POEMS 



His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, . 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. 

ill fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage I 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
f r half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's sou. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest 1 
Calmshelter'd haven of eternal rest! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polarfrost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, "^ 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not stai-ve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just couclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain : 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencaim, the truly noble, Ues in dust ; 
(Fled, like the suneclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O 1 hear my ardent, gi-ateful, selfish pray'r 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare 1 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death \ 



LAMENT 

FOR 

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

TRE wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meiklepaln, 



In loud lament bewail'd his lord , 
Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years j 
His locks were bleached white w.' timet 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting tliro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ; 
Butnotcht in all reirolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mcny changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On foi-ward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp 1 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom 

"In poverty's low, barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in liquid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering caise. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



69 



•'O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ! 
Musv tliou, the aoble, gen'rous, gi-eat, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low 1 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his bead an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

Aud a' that thou hast done for me !" 



LINES SENT 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 

OF WHITEFOORD, BART., 

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearfu' tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 
A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis is this Buke. 

GAWIN DOUGLAS. 

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
A3 market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to take the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows Hke gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 



(Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town'surpassesi 
For honest men and .bonny lasses ) 

O Tarn! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ; 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skell-— 
A blethering, blustering, drunk bell i 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober, 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunda.^, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon. 
Thou would be found deepdrown'd in Daonj 
Orcatch'dwi' warlocks in the mirk, 
ByAltoway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet 
How mony lenglheu'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tarn had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did ua mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure! 
Kings may be blest, but TVim was glorious; 
O'er a' the ills o' hfe victorious. 



But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the fiow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts Jor ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm, — 
Nae man can tether time or tide. 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-staiifl, 
Thatdreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last } 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 



70 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The speedy gleams the darkness swallow 'd ; 
Loud, deep and laug the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil bad business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg. 
Tarn skilpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising wind, and rain and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet : 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-AUoiDaywa.s drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.— 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman sraoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.— 
Before liim Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods I 
The lightning flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn I 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil !— 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie^s nodtUe, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sairastoiiish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw au unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witclies in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life an mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grira, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He serew'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantraip slight, 
Each in its caitJd hand held a light,— 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's oanes in gibbet aims ; 
Twaspan-lang, wee, unchristeu'd bairns ; 
A thief, npw oitted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
rive tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
^g&rtcr, which a babe had strangled ; 



A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi'mairo' horrible and awfu'. 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, ftmaz'd, and cunooa. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious, 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, ihey cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark 1 

Now Tarn O Tarn ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks instead o' creeshie flanuen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen t 
These breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie bardies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder dinna turn thy stomach. 

But Tmnkenn'd what was what fu' branrae, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Canck shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cuttie sark, o' Paisly ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond herpow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane tewitch'd. 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd : 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syneanither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cuttysark!" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

Asbeesbizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke. 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop! she starts before tlieir nose ; 
Aseager runs the market-crowd, 
When, " Catch the ttiitf!'' resounds aloud ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



71 



So Maggie runs, ths witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and halloo . 

Ah Tarn! ah, Tarn I thou'll get thy fairin I 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! 
Now, do ihy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig ; 
Tliore at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle—' 
Ae springbrought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

INHUMAN man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad t jy cruel heart I 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest, 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawu. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate. 



* It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight ariy far- 
ther than the middle of the next ruiroing stream. — It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that when he falls in with bogies, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard in turning back. 



TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BimGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green. 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 

Retreats to Dayburgh's cooling shade. 
Yet oft, delighted, stops, to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

.Each creature on his bounty fed : * 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well has won ; 
WJile Scotia, with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS, 

&c. 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

HERE souter **** in death does sleep ; 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. 

He'll baud it weel thegither. 

ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch, 

Into thy dark dominion 1 



ON WEE JOHNIE. 
Hie jacet wee Johnie. 



WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has mur Jer'd Johnie i 



72 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' herehii bodt/lies fu' low- 
Por soul he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend I 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend, 
The pitpng heart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride I 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'nhis failings lean'd to virtue's side."* 



FOR R. A. ESa. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ; 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A wanner heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. ESa. 

H E poor man weeps— here G n sleeps, 

Whom canting wretches blam'd ; 
with such as he, wher 'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damned I 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owrc fast for thought, owre hot for nile, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, s.fials the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng, 

pass not by 1 
Tut with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs, himself, Ufe's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the startling tear. 

Survey this grave. 

This poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to know. 
And keenly telt Xbe friendly glow, 

And softer Jlame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And staia'd his name I 

• Goldsmith. 



Reader, attend— whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flightsbeyond the pole. 
Or darkling bruds tliis earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control. 

Is wisdom's root. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPT. Grose's peregrinations 

THROUGH SCOTLAND 

COLLECTING THE ANTIftUITIES OF THAT 
KINGDOM. 

HEAR, Lando' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirkto Johnie Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prenl it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel— 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 
It's ten to ane ye'U find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L— dsave's ! colleaguin 

At some black art.— 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 

War^cks and witchesS; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b eg , 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call h. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets, t 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
Andparritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's flre-shool and fender ; 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland, 
t Vide his Treaties on Ancient Armour and Wea- 
pons. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



76 



That which cUs'.iiiguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 

A broom-stick o' the witch of Eiidor, 

Wcel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg j 
The knife that nickel Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail guUie.— 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has be, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
A;si pj% Oport ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'U see him 1 

Now, by thepow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa'thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THEBLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, 
PRESENTEDT0HER3Y THE AUTHOR. 

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay. 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may 'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Euuis' pois'nous breath. 
Never baleful steller lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom, blushing still wilh dew ! 

May 'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ex'ry bird the requiem sings ; 
Thou amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ANNA, thy charms my bosom (iv 
And waste my ?jul with care j 



But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fdir, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN 
M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, APARTICU- 
LAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

SAD thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deektwith pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasU 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's mom 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can poin. the brimful gi-ief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE 

HUMBLE PETITION 

OP 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 

THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

MY Lord, I know, your noble ear 
Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 

•Bruar Falls in Athole are exceeomgly picturetqtij 
and beautiful ; hut their effect is much impaired by th» 
want of trees and shrubs. 



74 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Embolden'cl thus,! beg you'll hear 
Your humble Slave complain, 

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 
In flaming summer-pride, 

Dry-weathering, waste my foamy streams, 
Aod drink my ci-j'sial tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
^f, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi'spite and teen, 

As Poet B**** camt hy, 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wiid-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
\ am, altho' I say't mysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi'tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warliling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellc w : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
AndcowarJ maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat , 

To weave his crown of Qow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in ail their charms 

The hour of heav'u to grace, 



And birks extend their fragrant araat, 
To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stntjr. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-pending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines dr 

My craggy cUfls adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may, old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prep 

Their honour'd native laiid ! 
So may thro' Albion'^ farthest ken. 

The social flowing glasses. 
To grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER 
FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OUGllTERTYRE. 

WHY, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake j* 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly .■• 
Why disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties i"— 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free ; 
Peaceful keep your dinipling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace 
Man, your proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But, man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'e, 



Glories in ni8 neart numane— 
And ci«atures for his pleasure slain. 

Iti these savage, liquid plains, 
Only knowa to waiid'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man v.-ith all liis pow'rs yoti scorn ; 
Swiflly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



BURNS' POEMS. 75 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 



STANDING BY THE FALL OPFYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy fioods j 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caldron boils — 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KEN- 
MORE, TAYMOUTH. 

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, t pursue, 

Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 

The meeting cliSs each deep-sunk glen divides. 

The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 

The palace rising on his verdant side ; 

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste ; 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 

The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 

The village, glittering in the moontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone waud'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods- 



Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative lire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe herbitter rankling wounds, 
Here heart-struck Gr'efmightheav'n-ward stretch her 

scan, 
And ifijur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



ON THE BIRTH 



POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

SWEET Flow'ret, plecfge o' meiklelove, 

And ward o' manyapray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thnu na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea. 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
Andgane, alas ! the sheli'ring tree, 

Should shield theefrae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving showV, 

The bitter frost and suaw I 

May He, the friend of wo and want, 

Who heal's life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant. 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends slie in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Clest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a jiarent stem 

Arise to deck oin land ! 



76 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



THE WHISTLE, 

A BALLAD. 



Ar the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curi- 
O'lB, I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of Den- 
mark, when she came to Scotland, with our James the 
ixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gi- 
gantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless 
champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the 
table, and whoever was last able to blow it, everybody 
else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to 
carry otf the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane 
produced credentials of his victories, without a single 
deSeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Mos- 
cow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Ger- 
many ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the 
alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowl- 
edging their inferiority. — After many overthrows on 
the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir 
Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present 
■worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days' 
and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the f^Tiisile his reguium shrill. 
SirWalter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after- 
wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddle of Glenrid- 
del, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On 
Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, bvthe present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- 
ton ; Robert Riddel Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descend- 
ant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
WTiistle, and in whose family it had continued ; and 
Alexander Furgusson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentle- 
man carried off the hard-won honours of the field. 



I SING of a Wliistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
" This Whistle's your challenge to Scotland get o'er. 
And drink them to hell. Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the whistle his requium shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Cnmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'^ ; 
WHiich now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew 'd. 

Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and law ; 
' See Oisian-'a Canic thufa. 



And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old eoiu» ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wiacK. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the mail. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replie*, 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend: 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend. 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame. 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindi-ed so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they wer« 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phcebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glen.iddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wags 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to filks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ! 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
" Craigdarrith, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come— one bottle more — and have at the sublime I 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with 
Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day I" 
' See Johnson's Tour lo the Hebrides. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF POETRY 

EXTRACTED 

FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS; 



SONGS, 



C JMPOSED FOR THE MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OF MESSRS. THOMSON AND JOHNSCN ] 

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* 

AULD NEEBOR 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle ; 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickrt 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wna like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin the words to gar them llink ; 
Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An, whyles, tut ay owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sus ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 

* This is prefixeil to the poems of David Sillar, pul)- 
Bshed at Kilmarnock, 17i)9. 



But just the pouchie pul the nieve in. 

An' while ought's there^ 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fase nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only Pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poorhizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mouie a shavie ; 
But for the muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae pulr, 
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to doo" 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLB 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyr wantoned round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green-wood eclioes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

HerairUke nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle 1 \ 

Pair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Aq^umu laild 



78 



BURNS' POEMS. 



When roving tliro' the garden gay, 
Or wandering iu tlie lonely wild : 

But woman, nature's darling child! 
There all her charms she does compile ; 

Even there her other works are foil'd 
By the bonny lasso' Ballochmyle 1 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep ; 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine. 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

THOU rAgering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn, 
O Mary ! dear departed shade 1 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid.' 

Hear'stthou the gi-oans that rend his breast I 
That sacred hour can I forget. 

Can I forget tlie hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parlmglove ! 
Eternity will not eBuce, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west, 

Pioclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my raem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care t 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
Mv Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



LINES ON 

AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 
THIS wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 
October twenty-third, 



A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 
I dinner'd wi a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writer's feasts, 
Nae, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even Join'd the honour 'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quoniDtt, 

Their hydra drouth did sioken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son. 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — laug Scotch elJs twa. 
Our Peerage he o'er looks them a.', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh for Hogarth'p magic pow'r : 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks. 

He hi the parlour nammer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the sywptoms o' the g* eat, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with imconcern 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON A YOUNG LADY. 

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in 
Clackmanngjishire, but whose infant years wert 
spent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming 
fair; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes hi the dew I 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
I That steals on the evening each leaf to renew 



BURNS' POEMS. 



79 



O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn I 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn I 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Wliere Devon, eweet Devon, meandering flows. 



CASTLE GORDON. 



STREAMS that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks, by Castle Gordon. 

IL 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil ! 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves tliat lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

in. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeUng soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
AnJ find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
Bv bonnie Castle Gordon.* 



NAE-BODY. 

I KAE a wife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
I'll tak cuckold fvae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There— thanks to nae-body ; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

* These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Mo- 
rag, a bighlojid air, of which he was extremely fond. 



I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-bodjr. 



I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae-body ; 

If nae-body care for me, 
V\V care for nae-body. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 

NAMED ECHO. 



In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of soug. 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.* 

TUNE—" I am a man unmarried " 

O.ONCE Ilov'dabonnielasE, 

Ay, and I love her still. 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love ray handsome Nell. 

Tallal de ral, S)-c . 

As bonnie lasses 1 hae seen. 

And mony full as braw. 
But for a modest gracefu' miea 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dt ess look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart 
But it's innocence and modesty 

Tliat polishes the dart. 

* This was our Poet's first attempts 



80 



BURNS' POEMS 



'Tis lliis inNelly pleases me, 

'Tis tbis enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely w. my breast 

She reigns without control. 

TaUalderal,^c, 



INSCRIPTION 
TO THE MEMORY OF FURGUSSON. 
HKRE LIfcS ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Bom September 5tk, 1151— Diea, I6th OctoberlTli. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay 

"No storied urn nnr animated bust," 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

Tc pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

T H E small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morninj. 
And wild scatler'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing 
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 
The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on liis throne } 
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 

Where the wild beast find shelter, but I can find 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn. 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas I can I make you no sweeter return ! 

EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

WHEN Nature her great masler-piecedesign'd. 
And fram'd her last best work the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 
And merchandise, whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The capul mortuumof gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and sijuires ; 



The martia. pnosopnorus is taugnt to flow 
I She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then makes th' unyielding mass with grave designSi 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

I'he order'd system fair before her stood, 
Xature, -well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good ; 
But e'er she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the sligntest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature-may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
VV'hen blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friend, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and here the homage enda \ 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
i roue to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting where withal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
I itying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the g-enerous truly ^reat, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Grahana. 

rity the tuneful muses hapeless train. 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main I 
Their hearts on selfish stern absorbent stufl". 
That never gives— tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allovv's, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard- wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that "the t»dly e'er should want a friend f" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who Ufe and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool I ) 
\Vho make poor will do wait upon I should — 
We own they're prudent but who feels they'"** »ood 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God'E image rudely etcii'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow.' 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou whogiv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know th n' giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mice I 
VVhose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. 
Yet vilest rejAiles in their begging prosa 



BURNS POEMS. 



81 



Mark, iiuw their lofty indcijendent spirit 

Soars on 'le the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best ot words should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation slain, 

My horr.y fistassumes the plough again ; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen-pence a week, I've liv'd before. 

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare eyen that last shift, 

I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift : 

That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

Mv muse may imp her wing for some sublime flight, 



FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule andlaw, reconciles contradiction — 
1 sing : If these mortals, the cities, should bustle, 
I car^ not, noti, let the critics go whistle. 

But now fora Patron, whose name and wnose giory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky 

hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgement so strong. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies Sebright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poormisbegot son of the Muses, 
for using thy name otters fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he looks. 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, hisgood and hisevil, 
All in all he'a a problem must puzzle the devil. 



On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its 

neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you know 

him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion thepicture will show 

him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'dhim ; 

* This is our Poet's fiist epistle to Graham of Fin- 
'.ry. It is not equal to the second ; but it contains too 
much of the characteristic vigour of its author to be 
suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural his- 
tory, or of chemistry, was wanted to enable him to ex- 1 
eciite the original conception correctly. 



For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's mor« iu ti 

wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll baa. 
But such IS the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two difi'erent shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland,21st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, out your letter made me vauntie I 
And are ye hale, and W3el. and cantie .'' 
1 kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south I 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald myself by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippeu'd to the chiel in trout'j, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one. 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to was.e his learon. 

E'en tried the body." 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here 1 
Parnassian queens, I fear I fear 

Ye'll now disdain ma, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies, 
Whaby Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mangsons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — thrawsaugh wocdies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o'tlate and air ! 

■• Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scoi.*lBd 
oWarious other works. 



82 



BURNS POEMS. 



Not but I hae a i iclier sliar : 

Than moiiy itliers ; 
But why Bhould ae men betler fare, 

AiiU a' men britheis? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy lire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eKe the same to honest Lucky, 
. watsheisa dainty chuckle, 

As e'er trend clay 1 
And gratefully, my guid auld cookie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



PROLOGUE, 



SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELLISLAND, ON 
NEW-YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great citv 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity : 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time d'jputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage giave ancient cough'd, and bade mc say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould he rude, you know, to ask the question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — " think !" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit. 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skiri'may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthfu' fan*, 
Angelic fqrms, high Heaven's jiec'i'iHr ra-»r ! 
Toyoj old Bald-pate smooths his wnuKiea brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important— now I 



To crown your happiness he asks your leare, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours. 
With grateful pride we own your many favoura ' 
And howsoe'erour tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 
ON THE LATE MISS BURNET 

OFMONBODDO. 

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 

As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 

Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 

As that which laid the accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy lorm and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown 
As by his noble work the Godlicad best is knowo. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more I 

Ye heatliy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens : 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd , 

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhangiug dreary glens. 
To you 1 fly, ye with my soul accord. 

frinces, whose cum'brous pride was all their worth 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail.' 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 
And not a muse iu honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light, thatbeams beyond the sphere*, ■ 

Bill like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou lell'st us darkling in a world of tear* 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care 1 

So decktthe woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bieak and bare. 



IMITATION 

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 

BY yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes bame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare nae weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-* 
Tljf ri-'ll never be ptace till Jamie comes hume. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



83 



My seven braw sons for Jamie di-ew sworrt, 
And now I greet rouud their green beds in the yerd ; 
I< brak tlie sweet heart o' my failhfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me quite down, 
Sin' I tint my bairna, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the same— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene — a field of battle ; time nf the day — evening; 
the wounded and dying, nf the victorious army are 
tupposed to ioin in the following Song, 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 
Firewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant I but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thoustrik'<*t the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

Jri the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

O ur King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on lile's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave ! 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

/3r< Occasional Address spokenby Miss Fontenellei 
her Benefit-Night. 

WFTIIyE Europe's eye is fix'd on miehty things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me m».ntion, 
Tlte Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First;'in the sexes' intermix'd connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is ■protection.— 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before theblast of fate, 
S'liik on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. — 

Our second Right— but needless here is caution. 
To keep lluu right invioiale's the fashion, 
F.ach man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he -. wrong it — 'tis decoiiun. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had aaiighf ways ; 



Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riol. 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, des^r admiration I 
Fn that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty our first attention summon, 
AJi .' ca ira ! the Majes'.y of Woman ! 



Sjmkenby Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit-night, Dt' 
cember 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries, 

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 

A Trologue, Epilogue, orsomesuch matter, 

'T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 

So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 

And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, lelmetell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

"I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 

Can you — but Miss, I own I l.ave my fears, 

Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance ; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, > 

Waving on high the desolating brand, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall know 

it; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Post. 

Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's tace — the beldam witch » 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Whu long with jiltish arts and iiirs hast Btrov 



84 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Who, as the botigns all temptingly project, 
Measur's! in desperate thoualit — a rope — thy neck- 
Or, where the beetling clifl'o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap ; 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at her follies— laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learu to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
Aiid love a kinder— that's your grand specific 



To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS. 



THE LEA-RIG, 

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented Ijirks, 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my ju, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O . 

In mirkestglen, at midnight how, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Allho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, . 



The hunter lo'es the morning stm. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gierae the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It inaks my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O . 



TO MARY. 

TUNE—" Ewe-bughts, Marioru 

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mr>ry, 
And leaveauld Scotia's shore? 

Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and Jie orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' tlie Indies, 

Can never equal thine. 



I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I swore by the Heavens to be true ; 

Andsae may llie Heavens forget me, 
When ] forget my vow 1 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's sti'and. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join. 
And curst be the cause that shall part ui I 

The hour, and the moment o' time 1* 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

S-HE is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee tiling, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

1 never lo'ed a dearer. 

And iiieslmy heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a whisome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine- 

The wavld's wrack we share o't, 
The warslle and the care o't; 
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it, 
And thiidc my lot divine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

OPAWye bonnie Lesley 
As slie gaed o'er the border? 

She's gaen, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquets farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what sneis. 
And ne'er made sic anit.ier ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Les'ay, 
Thy subjects we, before thee; 

Thou »rt divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The Deil he could na scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belangthee ; 
He'd look into the bonnie face. 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

* This Song Mr. Thompson has not adopted in h)» 
'collection. It deserves, however, to be preserved. £» 



BURNS' POEMS. 



85 



The Powers abooa will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Tliou'rt Jike themselves sae lovely 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again saebonnie. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 
TUNE—" Catharine Ogie." 

f E banks, and braes, and streams around, 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowei's, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langesl tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my deari^; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
Rut Oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now gi-een"s the sod andoMlld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highlssa Alary ! 

O pale, pale now, t'.iose rr»'J lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt en me sae kindly ! 
A moulderingnow in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly I 
But still within my bosom's core. 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AtJLD ROB MORRIS. 

THERE'S auld Rob Morris Ihatwons in yon glen. 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'nin^ amangthe new hay ; 
As bliihe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the liglit to mye'e. 



But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide thai will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane J 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I WRndermy lane like a night-troubled ghaist. 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in ray breast* 

0, had she been but of lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my dists-action no words can express 1 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Onblythe yule niglit when we werefot 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklenl and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, &rc. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, Src. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat hiseenbaith bleer'tand bliu', 
Spak o' lowpin owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, S,-c. 



Time and chance are but a tid% 
Ha, ha, Sfe. 

Slighted love is sair to bide, 
Ha, ha, 8fc. 

Shall T, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may gae to— France for me I 
Ha, ha, !fc. 



How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, S,-c. 
Meggi-ew sick — as he grew heal. 

Ha, ha, Src 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings ; • 
And 0, hereen, they spak sic thinjf- 

Ha, ha, ^-c. 



Duncan was a I'ad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, &i'c. 
Duncan could nabe her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; 
Now they're crouse aid canty boIUt. 

Ha, ha §-c. 



86 



BURNS' POEiMS. 



TUNK-" I had a horse." 

O POORTITH caultl, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Vet pooriiiha' I iould forgive, 

An' 'twere na for my Jeaiiie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life'sdearest bands untwiiiiug ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
lis pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, tie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
Otohy, Src. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

O why, Vc. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha ean prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as 1 am i 
O M>ky, 4-c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate I 
He wooes his simple dearie ; 

The sillie bogles, wealth and slate, 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have. 
Life': dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 
Depend on Fortune' shining ? 



GALLA WATER. 

THERE'S braw, braw larls on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

Bat Yarrow braes nor Etlric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon tliem a' 1 lo'e him better ; 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine. 

The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird , 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
Thatcoft contentment, peace, or pleasure. 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's thechiefest Warld's treasure I 



LORD GREGORY. 

MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest roar ; 
A waefu' wanders- seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory, ope lliy door. 

An exile fras her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw 

lilove it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grovt* 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

i laug, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ue'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashestby, 

O will thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause lore, 

His wrangs to heaven and me 1 



MARY MORISON. 
TUNE— "Bide ye yet." 

MARY, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 
" That maTce the miser's treasure poor i 
How blithly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could 1 the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling strin|f, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 s-gh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

W.ia for (Iiy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of hi*, 

Whase only fault is loving thee f 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

Ai least oe pity to me shown ! 
A tlioiightuiigenlle canna be 

The ilioughts o' Mary Moriatn. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



87 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

flKRE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, hand awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting ; 

It was na the blast Drought the tear to my e'e : 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 

O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main ; 

May 1 never see it, may I never trow it, 
But dying believe that my Willie's my ain I 



THE SAME, 
As altered by Mr Erskine and Mr. Thomson. 

HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame, 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me ray Willie the same. 

Winter-ioi-nds bleto lotid and caul at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e. 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum'jers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms I 

Blow soft ye breezes ! roil gent'y ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But Oh, ifhe^s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main 1 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. 

Our Poet, with his usual Judgement, adopted some of 
these alterations, ami rejected others. The last 
edition is as follows : 

HERE awa, there awa, wandeiing Willie, 
Uere awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e. 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
" The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms in the cave of your slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken ye breezes, rosy gently ye bilIo\ns, 
And waft my dear laddie ance nmir to my arm.?. 



But oh I if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But dying, believe that my Willie's my a!n. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

OH, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh I 
Tho'thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open ihe door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me. Oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life a*, my heart. 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh I 

The wan moon is setting behind the white ware, 

And time is setting with me. Oh ! 
False friends, fulse love, farewell 1 for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide J 
She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh I 

My true love, she cried, and sank down by his aide ,• 
Never to rise again. Oh ! — 



TUNE—" Bonny Dundee," 

TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith'a winding river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal youn^ Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal yoiuig Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy mormng, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he dehvers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger I 

Her modest demeanour's tne jewel of a'. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN, 

AIR— "The Mill Mill O." 

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fartherleas, 

And mony a widow mourning, 



ss 



BURNS' POEMS. 



, I left the lines and tented field, 
Where lang I'd been a lodger ; 
My huirble knapsack a' my wealth, 
A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd ■'■V plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia's harae again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy, 

A t length T reach 'd the bonnie glen. 

Where early life I sported ; 
1 pa-'s'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 
Sweet as yon hawthorn'.s b.ossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang. 
And fain wad be thy lodger ; 

I've serv'd my king and country lang, 
Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier than ever : 
Q,uo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed. 

Forget him shall [ never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it. 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — ^she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale likeony lily ; 

Siie sank within my arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie .' 

By him who made yon sun and sky — 
By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may stHl 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich m love. 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Uuo' she, my gi-andsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, myfaithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the roaiii, 

'i'he farmer plonghs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor coimt him as a stranger. 
Remember he s his country's stay 

in day and hour of danger. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

AIR—" bonny lass, will you He io a Barrack t 

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller hehecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address hei- wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, itis sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen I 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl I 



TUNE—" Liggeram Cosh. 

BLITHE hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love decla-ing : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green-sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



TUNE—" Logan Water.' 

O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne has o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face hia faea 
Far, fai- fi-ae me and Logan braes. 

I Again the merry month o' May, 
Has made our bills and valleys gay • 



BCRNS' POEMS. 



' >«e birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs, 
Tlxe bees hum round the brentliing flow'ra ; 
) Blithe, morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Whillie's farfrae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the tlirush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile, 
Bui I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
Wliile Willie's far frae Logan braes ! 

O vae upon you, men o' state, 
That brelliren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart moui'n 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan brae* J 



FRAGMENT, 

IN 

witherspoon's collection 

OF 

SCOTS SONGS. 
AIR—" Hughie Graham." 

*• O GIN my love were yon red rose, 

That gi-ows upon the castle wa', 
And 1 mysel a drop o' dew. 

Into herbonnie breast to fa' ! 

*' Oil, there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
Beal'd on her sUk-saft faulds to rest. 

Till fiey'd awa' by 1 habits' liglit." 

O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to Die spring, 
And 1, a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my httle wing ; 

How I wad mourn , when it was torn 
By antumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But 1 wad sLiig on wanton wing. 
When youthju' May its bloom renew'd.* 

•These stanzas were added by Burns. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

THERE was a lass.- and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And ay she wrought her maramie's wark J 

And ay she sang sae merrilie : 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest : 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'ra 
And love will break the soimdest rest. 

Young robbie was thebrawest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown , 

As in the bosom o' the stream. 
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she work« her mammie's war ., 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what her ail might be. 
Or what wad raak her weel again> 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e. 

As Robie tauld her a tale o' love, 
Aee'eninon thelUly lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cJieek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whispered thus his tale o' love ; 

Jeanie fair, I lo'e tliee dear : 
O canst thru think to fancy me ! 

Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naethingelse to trouble thee ; 

But stray amangthe heather-beils, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length sl^e blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them twa. 

PHILI-IS THE FA'iP. 

TUNE—" Robin Adair. 

WHILE larks with little win^, 
Fann'd the pure air, 



90 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tasting the lYeatliing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay tlie sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high 
Sucli thy rriorn : did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

Ii each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yoa wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds hent the dewy spray | 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

FhJllis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be. 
Such make his destiny. 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



TO the same Tune 

HAD I a cave on some wild, distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the waves dashing roar 
There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my las* repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more . 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air 1 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury. 
Then in thy bosom try. 

What peace is thiae ! 



TUNE—" Allan Water." 

BY Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi ;' 
The winds were whispering thro' the gi'ove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle makes it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie I 

• A mountain west of Straith Allan, 3,000 feet high. 



Her head upon my throbbing breast. 
She, sinking, said, " I'mtiiine forever !'■ 

Whi;eraony a kiss the seal imprest. 
The sacred vow, we ne'er should asver. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the flocks to fi;llow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day. 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowiiig heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or thru' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure | 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COJVIE TO YOU MT 

LAD. 

O WHITTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, SfC. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e. 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me . 
Yet look, &c, 

O whistle, S,-c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokia ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c, 

O whistle, S)-c, 



SONG. 
TUNE—" The mucking o' Geordie's byre. 

ADOWN winding Nilh I did wander. 
To mark the sweet flowers as they sprung 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your heauiiet 
Tliey never wV her can compare: 

Whatever /uis met wV my Phillit, 
Has met wV the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amr.s'd my fond fancy. 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



91 



Thou emblem, said I, o' my riiillis, 
For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, S)'c. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is tlie lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, Sec 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Herbreatli is the breatli o' the woodbine 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, 4'c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. 
On music, and pleasure and love. 
Awa, Sfc. 

r>ut beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, ^c. 



Air—" CauldKail." 

COME, let rae take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder j 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur. 
And do I hear my Jeanie own. 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms all wi' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share ; 

Tlian sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break i*, shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' Rowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; 
And now comes in my happy hours ; 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There ril spend the day wi' you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



The crystal waters round iia fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandenng wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, ^c. 

When purple morning starts the bare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me, S(c, 

When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock kiiowe^ 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My aindeai- dainty Davie. 



TUNE—" Oran Gaoi!," 

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart I 
Sever'd from thee can I strive ? 

But fate has will'd and we must part. 
CU often greet its surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail ; 
" E'en her I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'dher vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thi-o' thy sweets slie loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me I 



SONG. 
TUNE— "Fee him Father." 

THOU hast >.ft me ever, Jamie, ThoQ hast left me 

ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou haat left me 

ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd tliat death, Only should us 

sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay— I maun see the* 

never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 



j Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou hast cm forsaken^Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. 



9i 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thoucangtloveanllhcr jo, While my heart U break- 
ing. 
Soon my weary een I'll clo«e— Never mair to waken, 
Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

SHOUI-D aiild acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brnuglit to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And day* o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld Inns: syne, mij dear. 

For auld lang ayne. 
We'll talc a cup o' kindneisyet, 

For auld lang gyne. 

We twa hae ran about the braeB, 

And pu'd the gowana fine ; 
But we've wander'd mony aweary foot, 

Sin auld lang Bvne. 
For auld, ifc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun li'l dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang sync. 
For auld, i(c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hanfl o' thine ; 
And we'll taka right guid wiUie waught 

J^or auld lang syne. 
For auld, ifc. 

And surely ye'll be your plnt-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'l/ tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auUl lang syne. 
For auld, !(c. 



BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aftcn led, 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's rne day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
Bee approach proud Edward's power 
Edward I chains and slavery 1 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wlia can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wlia sae base as be a slave .-' 

Traitor! coward, I'jrn aud dee I 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian 1 on wi' me I 

By oppresiiions woes and paint I 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be— «hall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe 1 
Liberty's in every blow I 
Forward t let us do, or die I 



FAIR JENNY. 
TUNE—" Saw ye my father ?" 

WHERE are the Joys I have met in the morning, 
1'hatdanc'd, to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-windingthe course of yon river, 
And marking SA'cct fluw'retsso fair : 

No more I trace the '-ght footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys. 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 

Yet long, too well have I knowif : 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfurt bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond v/f my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



TUNE-" The Collier's ] 

DELUDED swain, the pleasure 
Tla fickle Faircan give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure, 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouils' uncertain motion. 
They are but types of woman. 

O art thou not ashamed, 
Totloat upon a feature ? 

If man lliou wouldn( be named, 
Despise the aiUy creature. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



93 



Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hohl on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in giory . 



TUNE—" The auaker'a wife." 

THINE am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
Kv'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 

There to tlirob and languish ; 
Tho' despair had wrung its t\jie, 

That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips, 

llich with balmy treasure : 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest 1 die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Xs ature gay adorning. 



TUNE— "Jo Janet." 

HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave. Sir, 

" One oftwo must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
lait man or woman, say, 

Mv spouse, Nancy .^" 

If 'tis stili tne lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so, goodb'ye allegiance! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust 

Think, think how you will bear It. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength tooear it will he given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the niltnt dead 
Still I'll try to daua*. you • 



Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprite* shall haunt yon. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will rty for fear 

My spouse, Nancy." 



AIR—" The Sutor's Dochter 

WILT thou be my dearie .? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle hearl. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee I 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. #■ 

Only thou, 1 swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me I 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchin shade, 

The viliage-bell has toll'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call : 
'Tis but the baUny-breiUhing gale ; 

Mixt with some warbler's ilying fall 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear 1 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come I and art thou true 1 
O welcome dear to love and me 1 

And let us all our vows renew, 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 

WITH 

A PRESENT OF SONGS. 
HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal liree, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers ioin'd, 



94 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Acwpt the' gift ; tlio' humble he who gires, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful raiud. 

,3o may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-cliords among 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love extatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, inluxury of tears 
As modest want the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endures, 
And heaven-born piety her sancfion seals. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

TUNE—" O'er the HiUs," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad 7 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove ; 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are ay with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thuud'riiig at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare rnj- darling boy ! 
Fate do with me chat you may 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, ^-c. 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless pow'r ; 
As the storms the forests tear 
And thunders rent the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, S^c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales. 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To ray arras their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, ^"c. 



TUNE—" Ca' the Towes to th« Knowet 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows , 
Ca' them whare the burnie rcnos. 
My bonnie dearie. 

HARK, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang. 
My bonuie dearie. 
Ca' the, Sfc. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves, that sweetly ghde 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the,Si.c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hour, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shall thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heav'u ^ae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
Aly bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair arid lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie det.rie. 
Ca' the, fyc. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 0*' A' 
TUNE—" Onagh's Water-fa.l. ' 

SAE flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnieblue. . 
Her smiling sae wyling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Ghloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw , 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad mak a saint forget the eky. 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form, aruigitc«fu' air j 



BURNS' POEMS. 



95 



Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign laW 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the .onely vail^.y. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silve' light the boughs amaug ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wi'.t thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vowso' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es rae best of a' 1 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 

(duasi dicat r'hillia.) 

TUNE—' ■ When she cam ben she bobbit. 

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Fhelv ? 
She's dcwni' the grove, sne's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy, 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely I 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



TUNE—" Cauld Kail in Aoerdeen, 

How longand dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho' I were ne'er sae weary, 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanelynights are lang 
And oh, her dreams sae eerie • 

And nh , her widow' d heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 

When 1 think on the lithsome days 

I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie i" 
For oh, Sfc. 



How slow ye move, ye heavy Vnan i 
The joyless day how dreary 1 

It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my Uearia. 
For oh, S,-c. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Duncan Gray." 

LET not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain. 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad thi-ough Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change j 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man. 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO UI3 
MISTRESS. 
TUNE—" Deil tak the Wars." 

SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creatu-e, 

Rjsy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods. 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lin'.white in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day, 

Phcebus gilding the brow o' mornit.g, 

Banishes ilk darksome sliade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen 'jky j 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight. 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and Joy. 



9G 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE ACJLD MAN. 

BUT lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wuitry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why cora'st thou not again ! 



TUNE—'* My Lodging is on the cold ground. 

MY Chloris, mark how grjen the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' ; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-wh»te thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 
1 ne courtier tells a finer taie. 

Bu*. .8 his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtiers' gems inay witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



SONG. 

Altered from an old English one. 

K was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day. 
The j-i-uthful, charming Chloe ; 



From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goe«. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youihful Chloe, charming Chloe • 

Tripping o*er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

Thefeather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, ^c. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCK 

TUNE—" Rothemurchie's Rant,'' 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wV the lint-while locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thouwi' me tent thefiocks. 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O I 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi'me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie wV, &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower, 

Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 

We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 

At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 

Lassie wi', Sfc. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silverray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way \ 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o'love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', Ifc, 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast. 
I'll comfort thee, rr,y deurie, O. 

Lassie wV the lint-wUte locksi 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Owilt thou wi' me tent theJiock$, 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



97 



TUNE—" Naney's to the Greenwood," &c. 

FAREWELL then stream that winding flows 
Arouno Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condimn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
Tofeel afireinev'ry vain, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover: 
The burstingsigh, the' unweeting groan. 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'stme to despair, 

Nor will, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive roe. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
1 saw thine eyes, yet notliing fear'd. 

Till fears no more had sav'd me ; 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors suik at last 

In overwheJmiug ruin. 



TUNE— "The Sow's Tail." 

HE— PHILLY, happy be that day 

When roving through the galher'd hay 
My youlhfu' heart was stown away, 
AnU by thy cheu-ms, my I'hjlly. 

SHE— O Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love. 
Whilst thou did piedge the Powers above 
To be my ain dear Wiily. 

HE — As songsters oftba early year 

Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blowst 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

HE — The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Fhilly. 

SHE — The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' waftuig o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bnr.g, 
As meeting o' my Wiily. 



HE— The oee that thro' the sunny hoiir 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my dehght is poor. 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE — The woodbine in the dewy weet 

When eveningshades in silence meet, 
Is nucht sae fragiant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE — Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 

And fools may tine, and knaves may witt 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE— What's a' the joys that gowd can gie t 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 

SONG. 

TUNE—" Lumps o' Pudding." 

CONTENTED wi' little, and cantio wi' mair, 

Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 

Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought t 
But man is a soger, and life is a faughi : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch. 
And my freedom's ray lardship nae monarch darj 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way } 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travel ; come pleasure, or p^in, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again l" 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY I 



TUNE— "Roy's wife. 
CHORUS. 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 7 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 7 
Well thou knowUt my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 7 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy.' 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward— 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst Ikou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy I 



98 



BURNS' POEMS. 



'JTiou may'st find those will love thee dear— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst lliau, &c. 



MY NANNIES AWA, 
TUNE—" There'll never be peace." &c. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the )amb)<ins that bleat o'er the braes. 
While birds warbie welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless— my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in tne weet o' the morn ; 
Thy pam my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie' awa. 

Come autumn, sae peasive, in yellow and gray, 
And sooth me wi' tiding o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me— now Nannie's awa. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

js there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs lus head, and a' that ; 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscur J, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The konest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind. 

He locks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that : 

But an honest man's aboon his might. 
Quid faith he mauua fa' that ! 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Their dignities, a^iiJ a' that 



The pith o' sense, and pridn o' worth, 
Are higher ranks than a' thai. 

Then let us pray that come itmaf. 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the ear^ 

May bear the gi-ee, and a' thsit. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man toman, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



SONG. 

TUNE—" Craigie-bura-wood ' 
SWEET fa's the eve on Craigie-buro, 

And blithe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing : 
But what aweary wight can please. 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither. 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tre«j 

Around my grave they'll wivQer. 



TUNE—" Let me in this ae uigfat," 

LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and fool, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night , 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
Forpity^s sake this aenight, 

O rise and lot me in, jo, 

Thou hears't the winter wind and we«l 
Nae sta- blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, S^c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the caoM 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
U let me in, ire. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



99 



HER ANSWER. 

O TELL name o' wind and rain, 
Upraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, Jo. 

CHORUS. 

/ tell yoit now tnh ae night. 

This ae,ae, ae night ; 
And ancefor a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirlcest hours, 
That round tlie pathless wand'rer pours. 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, fyc. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo, 
I tell you noiD, ifc. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trus'.'.ng woman say 
How aft her tate's the same, jo, 
I tell you now, S(c. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

TUNE— " Where'll bonnie Ann lie." Or, " Loch- 

Eroch Side." 
O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark stay. 
Nor quit for me the tremoling spray, 
/ hapless lover courts thy lay, 

Thy soothing, fond comp!:iining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless gi-ief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's s?ke, sweet bird, uae mair 
Or my pour heart is broken I 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
TUNE— "Ay wakinO." 
CHORUS. 
Long, long the night, 
Heav}/ comes the morrow 
:LofC. 



While my soul's delight, 
Is on her bed of soitow. 

CAN I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish. 
While my darling fair 

Is ou thv- couch of anguish ? 
Long, S)-c, 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror 
Slumber even I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Power's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare me 1 
Long, Sic, 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Humours of Gle 



THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the periume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the bjue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-Mstening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace. 
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



TUNE— " Laddie, lie near me.' 

'TWAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when nacbody did mind us, 
'Tvvas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindneaa. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
dueen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincere^t, 
Aad thou hast plighted me love o' the deareil, 



100 



BURNS' POEMS. 



And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sua in his motion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 
TUNE—" John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to tlie wealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembUng dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling rain 

Awhile her pinions ti les, 
Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



TUNE—" Deil lakthe Wars." 

MARK yonder pomp of costly fasnion. 

Round the wealthy, tilled pride : 
But when compar'd with real passion, 

Poor is a.I that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures .•" 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The po.'ish'd jewel's blaze 

Alay draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shriuking from the gaze of day. 

O, then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's deligh-.ful fetters she chains the willing soul 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



SONG. 

TUNE— This is no my ain House. 

CHORUS. 
this i> no my ain lassie, 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 



O weel ken I : 
Kind love is 



ai7i lassie, 
I her e'e. 



I SEE a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, Ifc. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall 
And lang has had my heart in thrall J 
And ay it charms my very saul. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light arelovers' een, 
When kind love is in the e'e, 
O this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is 710 &c. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green. 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why tlms all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 



The trout within yon wimplln burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream. 

That wanton trout was I ; 
Butlove,wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder clifl" that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was min° ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joys consume. 

The waken'dlav'rock warb* ig springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's powei, 

Until the flowery snare 



BURNS' POEMS. 



101 



O' witching love, in luckless hour, 
Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
VVi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd know ? 
The wretcli whase doom is, " hope nae mair, 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 
Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH^SONG. 

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 

And bonnie she, and ah, how dear I 
It shaded fra the e'euiu sun. 

The rosebuds in t\ie morning dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen, 

A in its rude and prickly power, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair I 

Dut love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and gr.efs aUke resign. 



WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of his Poems 
presented to a Lady, whom he had often celebrated 
under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair Friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since, thou, in all thy youth and charms. 

Must bid vne world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since the gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower : 
( And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since thy gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth has thou in store, 

The comforts of the 7nind I 

Thine is the se.f-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below 

Thine friendship's truest heai(. 



1 The joys refin'd of sense and taste. 
With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet bleat 
These joys could-he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

TUNE—" Let me in tins ae nig 

FORLORN, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wande. here 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

O wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sig/is with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
The blast each bud of hope and joy 
And shelter, sl>ade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of tliine, love. 
O wert, Sfc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
Owert, !)-c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me thuik we yet shall meet 1 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris bhine, love. 
Owert, ^-c. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
/ TUNE—" The Lothian Lassie." 

LAST May a braw wooer cam down the iang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 
Tlie deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en. 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he miglit die when lie liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himself for the iaircl. 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought 1 might hae waur offers, waurofferi, 
But thought I might hae waur ofl"ers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or leas 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her 1 



102 



BURNS' POEMS. 



He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, ihe jadl f could bear her, could bear 

her, 
Guess ye how, the jad t I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgaruock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet. 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 

But heavens ! how he fell a sweariju 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife. 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 
Bo e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



FRAGMENT. 
TDNE— " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Wf lY, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy ! 
Why why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers ; 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; 
Why, why wouldst thou cruel, 

Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



HEY FOR A LASSWP A TOCHER. 

TUNE — " Balinamona ora." 

AWA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

TVien key, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass 

wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wV a tocher ; the nice yellow 

truineas for me. 

Fotir beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 



But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowM^ 
Ilk spring they're nev" aeckit wi' bonnie white yowes, 
Thenhey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Gcordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them— the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, kc. 



SONG 

TUNE—" Here's a health to them that's awa,hiney.' 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to one Ilo'e dear. 

Here's a health to ane Ilo'e dear 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy.' 

ALTHO' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy I 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am lockt in thy arms— Jessy I 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel's smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy I 
Here's a health, &c. 



TUNE—" Rothermurchies's Rant. 
CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

hilt thou lay that frown aside. 
And smile as thou were wont to do? 

FULL well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear f 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 
Fairest maid, Sfc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O. let me share j 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fai'i est maid, fyc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



103 



THE BIRKS OP ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, willye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, leillye go to the birlcs of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks en fiowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, ^c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In tlie Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream aeep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shawa, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lasaie, &c. 

The hoary cliff's are crown'd wi' flowers, 
While o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And risnig, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Suiiremely blest wi' love and thee. 
In the Birk* of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, !fc. 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME ? 

TUNE— "An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." 

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel to fleceive me ! 

Well ycu know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go .' 

By my love so ill requited : 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the panas of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do i\pt leave m-; so I 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

THICKEST night o'erhangmy dwelling ! 

Howling tempest o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

StiU surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing 

Busv haunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes, softly blowing, 

Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the cause ofright engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er ue, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide wm-ld is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVEIv. 
TUNE— "Morag." 

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ^ 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 

S;,all soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowie moaning. 

Shall a' be blithly singing, . 

And every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice thelee-langday, 

When by his mighty warden 
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey. 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWINO, 

TUNE—" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament.'* 

RAVING winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief ray life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



MUSING ON THE ROARING 
TUNE—" Druimion dubh 



MUSING on the roaring ( 
Which divides my love i 



104 



BURNS' POEMS. 



■W earying Heaven in warm ilevotion, 
For his weal wliere'ej-he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
YieKtiiig Ute lo nature '$Uw ; 

Whisp'riiig spirits round my pillow 
TnJkof him that's t'arawa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, jo)>-surrounded, 
Gnudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downiy sleep, the oirtain dmw ; 
Spirits kind, again auend me. 

Talk of lum that's farawa t 



BLITHE WAS SUE. 

Blithe, blithe and merry teas she, 
Blithe teas she tut and ben : 

B'ithe by the banks of Em, 
And bUthe in Gletnurit glen. 

BY Oughtertyre srrows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks, tie birken shaw j 

But rhemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarro*- ever saw. 
Blithe, !fc. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn : 

She tripped by the banks of Frn, 
^s light's a bird upon a tlioru. 
Blithe, 4-c. 

Her bonnie face il was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the bliuk o' Fhemie's e'e. 
Blithe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But I'hemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy gieen. 
Blithe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny sialk 
All ou a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are Sed, 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It sceiits the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet foudly pi-est, 



The dew sat chilly on her brea»t 
Site early in tlie morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew 'd. 
Awake the early monuug. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
On trembling string orvocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blare upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN! EJI 
STORMS. 

TUNE—" N. Gow's Lamentation for 
Abercairny." 

WHERE braving angry winter's storme. 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
I'ar in their shade my Peggy's channa 

Kirst blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly nmrks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaie. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where I'eggy's charms I first survey 'd. 

When 4£St I felt that pow'r ! 
The tyrantT&ealh with grim control 

May seiie my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing lVg?y from my soul 

Must bo a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY 
TUNE—" Inverca'id's Reel." 

CHORUS. 

O Tjhbie, I hae seentke day. 
Ye teould nae been sae sAy ; 

For laii o' sear ye lightiy me. 
But, tjroieth, Icare na by. 

YESTREEN I met you on themocr. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like sloure : 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 
Tibbie, I hae. If c. 

X doubt na, lass, but ye msy think. 
Because ye hae the name o' clink. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



105 



That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er yc like to try. 
O Tibbie, IImc, (fc. 

But sorrow tak him that's gae mean, 
Altho' hia poiich o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy queen 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I liae, ((c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anilher airl. 
And answer him fu' dry. 
OTibbie, Ihae,(fe. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 

Ve'U fasten to him like a briar, 

Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 

Be belter than the kye. 

O Tibbie, Iliac, tfc. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Yourdaddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The dell a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, Ihae,!fc. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark : 
Ve need na look sae iTigh. 
O Tibbie, Ihae,&c. 



CLARINDA. 

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvanderhie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

Thesunof allhis joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 



TUNE—" Seyenth of November. 



I'HE day returns, my bosom bums, 
The blissful day we Iwa did meet. 



Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 
Ne'er surnmer-sun was half sae sweet. 

Than a' the pride that loads the tide, ' 

And crosses o'er the sultry line : 

Than kingly robes, thancrownf 3rd globes. 
Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ' 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The Iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
Mow languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year I 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are bro ■ . 
And all the gay foppei^ of summer is flawn ; 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues t 
How long I baveliv'd — but how much liv'd in »a<a ; 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
Wliat aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd I 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darkeu'd how 

pain'd 1 
This life's not worth having with aii it can give, 
For something bevond it poor man sure must live 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILI 

TUNE—" My love is lost to me." 

0, WERE I on Parnassus' bill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Niih maun be my muse's well. 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corslncon I'll glower and spell. 

And write how dear 1 love thee. 

Then come sweet muse, inspire my lay. I 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
1 coudna sing, I coudna say. 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the gieen. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
Thy tempting lips, thy rcguisheen — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 

^ „ I onlv live to love thee. 

11. 4 



106 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tho' 1 were doom'd to wander ot> 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run 
TiiL ;hen — and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
TUNE—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 

OP a' the airts the wind can blaw. 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'ebest : 
There wild wood* jrrow. and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's fiight 

Is everwi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowera. 

I see her sweet and fair : 
] hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fouutainj shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHM\ LE. 

THE Calrine woods were yeTlow seen, 

The flowers decay'don Catrinelee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded grove Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'U flourish fresh and fair : 
Ye birdies dump, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'U charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas 1 for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, 

And Rob and Allan came to see ; 
Three blither hearts, that lee-Iang night, 

Ye wad na find in Cbristendie. 

We are nafou, we're na thatfou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock Tnay craw, the day may duie 
Arcd ay we'll taste the barley bree, 

Here are we met, three raeiry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow arti we ; 



And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are naefou, Sfc, 

It is the moon, I ken herhotn, 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle bs liame 
But, by my sooth, she'll wail a wee! 
yVe arenaefou, Ifc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward looa is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 
He is the king amang us three 
We arenaefou, ^-c. 



THE BLUE-EVKD LAS.SIE. 

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear I'h dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

T wa lovely een o' bonnie biue. 
'T was not her t'oldeu ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ;— 

It was her een sae bomiie blue. 

She talk'd she smil'd, my heart she wyl'; 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And ay the slound the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aibUns listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
TUNE—" Robie Dona Gorach." 
THE Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Commins ance had high command: 
When shall I see that honOur'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear I 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hacd 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

Now lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks andbraet, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 



JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, 
Wlien we were first ac«}uent ; 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



107 



Your locks were like the raven , 
Your bonuie brow wis brent ; 

But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, Jolui, 

We clamb the hill thegilher ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John 

But hand and hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

Jolin Anderson ray jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

MY heart is a-breaking, dear Tittle, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'mthinkin, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith / might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I maunnii marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drummeller, 
"Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben : 

lie brags and he blaws o' liis siller. 
But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They fiatter,she says, to deceive me : 
Bnt wlia can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'il gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it'sordain'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drev/ ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

Tlie last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken 

His likeness cam up the house staukin 
And the very gray breeks o' TamGlen ' 

Come counsel, dearTittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you mybonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e deafly, Tam Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 



MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty. 
And meikle ciiitiKS my luve o' my kin ; 



But little thinks my luve T ken brawlie, 
My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 

My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 
He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny. 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune may try. 
Ye're like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye'll like to the hark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUID WIFE COUNT THE LAWIN 

GANE is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faiite o' light. 
For ale and brandy's stai-s and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. 

TTien midwife count the Imein, the lawin, the Icnein, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggi$ 
mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

Then guidwife count, See, 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 

Then guidwife count, &c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' 
AN AULD MAN.' 

WHAT can a younglassie, what shall ayounglaasie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 

Bad luck on the pennie. &c. 

He's always compleenin frae morqin to e'enih, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He'sdoylt and he's dozen, his bluid it Ls frozen, 
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

Hehumsand he hankers, he frets, and he cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
0, dool on the day I met wi' an' auld man 1 

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

rila-oss him, and wrack him, until I heart-break hllBj 
And then his auld brass -.villbuy me a new pan. 



108 



BURNS' POEMS 



THE nONlE WF.E THING. 

BONNIE wcc thing, cannie wee thing, 
LoT«lr wee thin;, wnst thou nune, 

1 wad wear thoe in my bosom, 
I.est my Jowel I should tine. 

Wishrully Ilooknndlniiguish 

la thai bonnio l«ce o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds \vi anguish, 

Lest my weo tbiiig be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, andbe.inty, 

In ac constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my dnty, 

Goddess o' this soulo' mine 

ISoiriii irse, tie. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAiM! 
TUNE—" The Moudiewort." 

An O, for one and tirfnh/, T(t>n ! 

An fiei/, sieatt am aiid twtitti/, Tatn t 
ru l«am my kin nuUng sang. 

An I saw ant and txeenty, l\ifn. 

THEV snool me s.iir, and hand mc down, 
And ^ar me look like bUintie, Tani I 

But three short yeai-s will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes auc and twenty, Tarn 1 
.-In 0,/or afi«,4'C. 

A Rlcib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was lett me by my auntie, Tarn ; 

At kith or kin 1 needna spire. 
And I saw ano and twenty. Tarn I 

An O, for one 4'ff. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; 
But hear'st Hum laddie there's my loof, 

I'm thine at ane Bi\d twenty, Tarn! 

An O, for ane, S^c. 



BESS AND HER SilNNlNG WHEEL. 

O LEE7E me on my spinning wheel, 
O leer.c me on my rock and reel ; 

Frae tay lotae that cloeds nty bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sin; and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leeie me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my Iheekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little Ashes' caller rest : , 

Tb- sun Minks kindly in the biet', 
Whcr* blith 1 turn my spinning wheel. 



On lefty niks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tata. 
The linlwhitea in the hazel br«e«, 
Delighted, rival iiher's lays : 
Tho croik aniang the claver hay, 
The Patrick whirrino'er the ley. 
The swallow Jinkin round my shiel 
Amuse mc at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 



In siiiinicr when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka fielt*. 
While claver blooms white o'er the If* 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Uessie in the milking shiel. 

Says, I'll be weil,coine o't what will i 
Out spak a dame in wrinkl«d eild, 

" O' guid udnsemeut comes nae ill. 



" It's ye Ime wooers mony ane. 

And lassie, ye'rc but young ye ken : 
Then wait a wee, and camue wale. 

And roulhie but, a roulhie ben ; 
There's Johnieo' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me. my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the Uiver's lire." 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single fiie ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kyt, . 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
Butblithe's the blink o' Bobbie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gia 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

" thoughtless lassie, life's a fanght ; 

The caimiest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some w ill spare. 

An' wilfu' folk mauLi hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drmk lh« y<n.' 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kje •, 
But the tender heart o' Iccsome Iut«, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robieand I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on j 
Conlent and lave brings i^eace and Vo^. 

Whal luairhae nuceus upin a throne f 



BURNS' POEMS. 



10» 



PAIR ELIZA. 
A GAELIC AlH. 

TURN again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind biinic hofore wc pari, 
Mew on thy denpairing lover 1 

Canal thou break hi» failhfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love tliy heart denieR, 
For pity hide the cruel Rentence 

Under fricndahip'iikind diaguine. 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Whafor thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shall mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bcBlovv. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Nol the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Nol the poet in the moment 

Fancy liglitcns on his e'e. 
Kens the pleasure, feels tlie rapture 

That Ihy presence gits to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O LUVE wiU.Tcnture in, where it daur na weel be 

seen, 
O luvc will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; 
Bui I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae 

preen, « 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', iid (rstling o' the year. 
And I will pu' the pink, \iji emblem o' my dear. 
For she's '.lie pink o' worniisJtind, and blooms without 
a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the buddir.grose when r'hocbns peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet boiinie mou ; 
'I he hyacinth 's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily Ills pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air 
And a* to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But tlie songster's nest within the bush I winna tak 
away; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Mriy.^ 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'cningslaris near. 
And the diamond-drapso' dew shall be her cen sae 
clear : 



The violet's for modesly which weel she fa's to ifear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll «wear by a' 

above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er 

remuve, 
And this wii; be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS 0' BOON. 

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Dorm, 

How can ye bloom sae fn-sh and fail- ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sac weary, fu' o' care I 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed Joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine Iwine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree: 
But my fausc luver stole my roae. 

But ah ! he left Ihe thorn wi' me. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" CathafJa* Oglo." 

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair. 
How can ye chant, ye little bird*, 

And 1 sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou boniilo L> 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds mc o' the liapi)yday8 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie b(.' 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hfie I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the wood-bine twine. 
And ilka bird sango' its love. 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd arose, 

Frae affits thorny tree, 
And my fausc luver slaw the rose, 

Bui left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

WILLIE Wastledwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie 



19 

YfiUli was a wabster guid, 
Cou'fl Blown a clue wi ony bodie ; 

Be had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her raither ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the ver^i colour ; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whisken beard about her mou, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sicawife, !fc. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast. 
The twin o' that upon her shouthcr ; 
Sic a wife, S(c. 

Auldbaudrans by the ingle sits, 
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 

■Her walie nieves like middea-creels. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water : 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

J wad nae gie a button for lier. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
" Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beamhig mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me rememl^r, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

WILT thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that 's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear am", tov/, that only thou 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Shall ever be my dearie. 

Oniy thou, I swear and voir, 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 

Or if thou wilt na be ray ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 

Ifitwinna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose a« ; 

Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusiinjr that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hearty 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof camin wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has'tbykind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle togien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green bract, 
Flow gently. I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My INIary's asleep by the murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Farmark'd wi' courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and ray Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

Howjvleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades m^Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lofty it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braei, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



HI 



My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, s weet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

THE em'.ling spring comes in rejoicing. 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies, 
Fresh o'er the mountains break forth the morning 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And ! rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE CjALLANT WEAVER. 

WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree 
There lives a lad, the lad forme. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'dmy heart would tine. 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

Wliile birds rejoice in leafy bowers : 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
rii love my gallant weaver. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE ? 

LOUIS, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let me crown my loVe her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me ; 

Kings and nations, swith awa I 
Re if randies, I disown ye ! 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 
MY heart is sair, I dare na tell. 



My heart is sair for somebody i 



I could wake a winter night 

For the sake o' somebody. 

Oh-hon I for somebody I 

Oh-hey ! for somebody I 

I could range the world around, 

For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody, 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey! for somebody I 
I wad do — what wad I not? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

THE lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and more she cries, alas I 

And ay ihe saut tearblins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the b'uidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e! 
Now waeto thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be : 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



MOTHERS LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OT 

HER SON. 

TUNE—" Finlayston House." 

FATE gave the word, the ari-ow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops. 

In dusi dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
0, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest 



112 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
Ab the mirk night o' December : 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was tlie chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 
And dear, Sfc. 

And here's to them that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to ihemthat wishus weel. 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them : 
And here's to them, we dare na tell. 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, Ifc. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? 

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'eniu sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e'eniu sua is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay gieen shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e 1 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to ray Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks Withe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnic braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair, 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But crie me Lucy in my arms, 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O, sweet is she in yon town, 
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ! 

A fairer than's in yon town, 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 
And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I careless quit lught else below, 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warni, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And she— as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest lyjidesl heart. 



A RED, REDROSK. 

0,MY luve'slike a red,redro"e, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, myluve's like themelodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve ami : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dearj 
And the rocks meltwi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve I 
And fare thee weel a wh.ile I 

And I will come again, my luve, 
']'ho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION, 

As T stood by yon roofless tower, 

Whe»e the wa'-flower scents the dawy air. 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill. 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa'a. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauldbliie north was streaming foKh 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Alhort '.he lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attii-'d as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
Hisdarin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnetgrav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy— Libertie I 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear j 
But oh, it was a tale of wo. 

As ever met a Briton's ear I 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I wiiiua ventur't in my rlyme*. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



113 



COPY 
OF A POETICAL ADDRESS. 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 
With the present of the Bard's Picture. 

REVERED defender of be-xuleous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tlio something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rermay well claim a sigh, 
, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it : 
Those fathers would sourn their degenerated son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartily joii;, 

The Q, — , and the rest of the gentry. 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty truce : we're on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how tlie fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

_ I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 
TUNE—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 



Hergrandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall 
rue !" 

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling comi 

But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward stears 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's stand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'dtheair,and they plunder'd the land» 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry. 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'da world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly. 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy raven took wing from the north. 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wantou in carnage and wallow in gore ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms the fury prevail'd. 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Chameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife, 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'dthe Tweed's silver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run ; 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun ; 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them al- 
ways. 



THE following Potim was written to a Oentleman, 
who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to 
continue it free of Expense. 

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through. 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new 1 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist 1 wanted 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 

Or what the drurnlie Dutch were dom ; 

That vile doLip-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose ofl" : 

Or how collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or ifthe Swede, before he halt, 

Wouldplayanither Charles the twalt : 

If Denmark, any body spake o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't : 

How cut-throat Prussian blads were hingin, 

How libbet Italy was singin ) 



114 

k Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame, 
In Britain's court kept up tlie game : 
How Royal Geoi-ge, the Lord leuk o'er him 
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chaitam Will was livin, 
Orglaikit Charlie got his nievein ; 
How dsddie Burke the plea was cookin. 
If Warren Hastings' neck wasyeukin ; 
How cesses, stents and fees were rax'd, 
Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd, 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 
If that diftbuckie, Geordie W*** S, 
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser 
And no a perfect kintra cooser, 
A' this and mair I never heard of; 
And but for you I might despaired of. 
So gi-eatfu', back your news I send you, 
And pray, a' guid things may attend you. 
EUisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

HAIL, Poesie I thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk euerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
Andocbt o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

Mid a' thy favours 1 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Hortatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches. 

That ape their betters. 

In this brawage o' wit and lear 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

A rural grace ! 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there's ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
TbouneednA jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou'sfor ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian hues ; 

Nae gowdon stream thro' myrtles twine, 

Where Philqpiel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines. 

Her griefs will tell 1 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonuie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchinlove. 
That charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



BATTLE OP SHERIFF-MUIR, 
Between the Duke of Argyle and the Pari of Mar, 

•' O CAM ye here the fight to shun. 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man .' 
Or were ye at tlie sherra-muir. 

And did the battle sae, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough sough for. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan buds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd. 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords clasb'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trewes, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs. 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
\'VTien bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath 

They fled like frighted does, man. 



' O how deil Tarn, can that be true i 
The chase gaed frae the north, man : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



115 



I «aw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, mtn : 
And ai Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straughtto Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot 1 the gates were shut, 
And mouy a huntit, poor red-coat. 
For fear araaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dilndee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their ueebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o" brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some ic^l for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the lories, fell, 
And whigs to hell did fiee, man. 



SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S DAY 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

THIS day Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-paled fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
'I'd wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer, 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Kor makes the horn- one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

C'oila's fair Rachel's care to-day. 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

FirsljWhat did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

" The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more .' 



A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss I 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies ; 
That on this frail, uncertain state. 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misei-y's woful night. — 
Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends ; 
Let us Ih' imporlaut now employ, 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho' you, with day and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrow to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard : 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, ontlie late Mr. WiUiam Smelic, 
Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and 
Member 'of the Antiquarian and Royal societies .)/" 

Edi}\bur^h. 

To Crochallan cnma 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to sha ving-night. 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild starin? thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd, 
Yet tho' liis caustic wit, was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POLITICAL INSCRIPTION for an Altar to /» 
dependence, at Kerroughty, the Seat of Mr, Her 
on; written in summer, 1795. 

THOU ofanindependant mind, 
Withsoalresolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 
Prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave. 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 
Virtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dOst fear. 
Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

OF GLEN RIDDLE, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more 
Nor pour your descant, grating on my sorJ ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 



)16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Bow can ye charm, ye flow'rs with all your dyes ? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier ; 
The Mail of Worth, and has not left his peer. 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

Ilow cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glis- 
ten'd ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listeu'd ! 

if sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 
Thou diedst unwept as thou Uvedstunlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, ail ye ofl'spring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; 

Bat chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the rash deed , 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire 



THE EPITArH. 

HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam, 

Warit only of wisdom denied her resjiect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER to a Mandate sent ly the Surveyor of the 
Windows, Carriages. &c. to each Fanner, order- 
ing him to send a signed List of his Horses, Ser- 
vanta, Wheel-Carriages, &c., and whether he was 
a married Man or a Bachelor, aiid what children 
they had. 



SIR, as your mandate did request, 
1 send you here a failhfu' list, 



My horses, servants, carts, andgraith. 
To which I'm free to tak my ailh. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand afore, a guild auld has-been. 
And wight and wilfa' a' his days seeu j 
My /land a hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft hae born me safe frae Killie, 
And your old borough mony a time. 
In days when riding wasnae crime : 
My far a hin, a. guid gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow wastrac'd ; 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale. 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few. 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new : 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle. 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsmanane,a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fothei 
I rule them, as I ouglit, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely. 
And ay on Sundays duly niglitly, 
I on the questions taii'gethem tightly. 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sue gleg. 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I'venanein female servant station. 
Lord keep me ay fiae a' temptation; 
I hae nae wife and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than well contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sousie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye hke but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady 
I've said enough for her already, 
And it ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — D ye'se get them a' thegither I 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 
Ere 1 sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date is under noted ; 
Then know all ye whomit concei-us, 
Subscripsi huic 

ROBERT BURNS. 
Mosssiel, 22d, Feb. 17S6. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



117 



SONG. 

NAE gentle flamt's, tho' e'ersae fair, 
Shall ever be my muses's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

WitMn th\ glen sae bush/, O. 
Aboon the plain, sae i-v.shy, O, ^ 
I set me down wi' right good will ; 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine I 
The world then the love should knaw 
I bear my highland lassie, O, 
Within the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I love my highland lassie, 0. 
IVithin the glen, fyc, 

AUho' thro' foreign climes I range. 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

For her I'll darfr the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, !fc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band I 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O I 
Farewell the jilain sae rushy, O! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie , O! 



IMPROMPTU, 



ON MRS. 



'S BIRTH-DAY, 



NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

OLD Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferrd ; 
What have 1 done of all the year. 
To bear tliis hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crovirning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Nov, Jf/e, for once be mighty civil. 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 



Give me. and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match m8| 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY 

on, wert thou in the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around theeblaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a' to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desart were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown. 

Wad be my queen, wad be my qnecn. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY , DUMFRIES ; 

iVitk Books which the Bard presented her, 

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer; 
That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



SONNET, written on the 25th of January 1793, the 
Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush sing 
in a morning Walk. 

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough : 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow 'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear. 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor aeks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 



118 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I thank thee, Author of this opening day : 
Thou whose bright sun uow gikls you orient sliies 1 
Riches denied, Uiy boon was purer joys, 

What Wealth could never ^^ve nor talve away I 

Yet come, thou child of poverty auTl care ; 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with the 
I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, toMr.S"E, on refusing to dine 
tcithhim, after having been promised the pst of 
Company, and the first of Cookery ; llth December, 
17S5. 

No more of your guests, be they tilled or not. 

And cookVy the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



Jh Mr. S"E, with a Present of a Dozen of Porter. 

O, Had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 

A gifl that e'en for S" 'e were fit. 



/eruealem Tnvem, Dumfries. 



THE DUirPRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
TUNE—" Push about the JoTum."—Apri!, 1795. 

DOES haughty Gavd invasion threat? 

Tlien let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Crifl'el sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

Ou British ground to rally ! 

Fali de rail, Src 

lei us not like snarling trkes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an uuoo loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain stiil lo Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wraiigs be righted, 
Fall de rail, i,c 

The kettle o' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler toun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluidlhe ketile bought, 

And wha wad daie to spoil it ; 



By heaven the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boilit. 

Fall de roll, ire. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they bedanin'd together! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECT 
OR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; . 
Alake, r.lake, the meikledeil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Ai e at it, skelpiu, jig and reel, 

Iir my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 

Th&t one pound one, I sairly want it : 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

II would be kind; 
And while my heart wi' life-blojd duuted, 

I'd bear'tiu miud. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nickel : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And fair me sbeuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turu'daneuk. 

But by that health I've got a shafe o'l , 
And by thai life, I'm promis'd mair o'l, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 

.•V tenlier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman ahom he had offended 

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes if wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless Iriend? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Mine was th' insensate frtnzied part, 
Ah why should \ each scones outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 
'Tie thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COL-0NEL DE PEYSTER, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the I^oet's weal ; 
Ah 1 now sma' bsart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they desei-ve : 
(And aye arowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, , 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay waveringlilte the willow wicker, 

'Tweengood and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan. 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claul on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er castsauton. 

He's otriike fire 

Ah Nick I ah Nick I it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put uadaft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

0' hell's daran'dwaft. 

I'oor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels o'ergowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
They girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think 1 am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abiuriiiga' inteutionE evil, 

1 quat my pen : 



The Lord preserve us fra the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH. 

MY curse upon thy venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alaug ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines 1 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics guaw, or cliulic s-queezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Ay raocks our groan 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle 1 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the gigleta keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-slooh, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see t 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' I 

O ihou grim, mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes ni discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick |— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towinond's Tco'.h-ach 



TUNE- 



' Morag. 



O WFTA is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-kceping ? 

O sweel is she that lo'es me. 
As dews o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHOROS. 

O tkaVs the lassie o' my heart, 
My lassie ever dearer ; 

O that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer hir. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



If thou shall meeta lassie, 

In grace aud beauty charming, 

That e'en thy diosen lassie, 
Ere while thy breast sae warming 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
that's, !fc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted 
And thou art all delighted. 
O that's, ^-c. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted. 

If every otlier fair one, 

But her thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted.— 
O that's, !fc. 



SONG. 

JOCKEY'S ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he isgane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Sparc my luve, ye winds that blaw. 
Flashy sleet? and beating rain I 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep. 
Sweetly blithe his waukeuingbe ! 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat liername ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still athame. 



SONG. 

MY Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway. 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
Tne generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarms. 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTENin a Wrapper enclosing a Letter to Copt. 
Grose, to be left with Mr. Cardonnel, AxUiqunriMtt 

TUNE—" Sir John Malcolm. 

KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo, Sf ago, 
If he's araanghis friends or foes ? 
Jram, coram, da^o. 

Is he South or is he North ? 

Igo, &r ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 
Jram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain Ly Highland bodies ? 

Igo, & ago. 
And eaten like a weather-haggis 
Iram, coram,dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, !)'ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 
Jram, coram, dago. 

WHiere'er he be, the Lord be near hiia I 

Igo, Sf ago. 
As for the dcil, he daur na steer him. 
Jj-am, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, & ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, S,- ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, ir ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 
Iram, coram, dago. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ, 
OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR 

1 CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



121 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at res;, 
As e'er God with his image biest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss : 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O THOU, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want 1 
We blesa thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness leut : 
And, if it please thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen ! 



To my dear and much honoured Friend, 
Mre. Dunlop, of Duntop, 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

SENSIBILITY, how charming, 
7%o«, my friend, canst truly tell ; 
ut distress with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Uear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless blrj ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bough i the hidden treasure, 
Fiuer feelings can bestow ; 



Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of vo. 



A VERSE composed and repeated by Burns to tht 
Master of the House, on taking leave at a Place in 
the Highlands, where he had been hospitably enter' 
tained, 

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more. 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 

SCENES of wo and scenes of pleasure^ 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin, 

Fare thee weel before I gang ! 
Bonny Doon, whare early roaming, 

First I weav'd the rustic sang I 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First enthrall'd this heart o' mine. 

There the safest sweets enjoying,— 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall iyno I 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye hae render'd moments dear : 

But alas I when forc'd to severe. 
Then the stroke, O, how severe 1 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it 

Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me I 
Could I think I did deserve It, 

How much happier would 1 oe ! 

Scenes of wo and scenes oif iJ>.ea8are, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew 

Scenes of wo and scenes of nieasure 
Now a sad and last odlea / 



MISCEIiliANKOUS POETRY, 

SELECTED FROM 
OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



AULDchuckie Reekie's" sair distrest, 
Down drocps her ance weel burnishl crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie basket nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'ea best, 

Willie's awa ! 



II. 



O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa I 



III 



The stiffest o' tbera a' he bow'd, 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow 'd ; 
They durst nae niair than he allow'd , 

That was a law f 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Wi'lie'e awa I 

IV. 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Fra colleges and boarding schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools. 

In glen or shaw ! 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Wi'lie's awa. 

* Edinburgh. 

* Tne Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of 
»iich Mr. C. was Secretary. 



V. 



The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumerf 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour j 
He was a dictiouar and grammar 

Amang them a,' I 
I fear they'll now mak raony a stammer, 

Willie's awa I 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour, * 
And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw I 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

WaUe'8 twa I 

VII. 

Now worthy G*****y's latin fac«, 
T****r's and G********"3 modest grace} 
Mr' K'***e, S*"'*t, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er tav I 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa I 

VIII 

Poor Burns — e en Scotch drink canna quicksD, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its rainnie and the cleckin 

By hoody-craw ; 
Gricrs gien his heart an unco kickin, 

Willie's awa I 

IX. 

Vow ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnio' bieiium, 
And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him ; 



* Many literary gentleman were accoftonwd t» 
meet at Mr C— 's house at breakia*;. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



123 



And self-eonceited critic slcelluin 

Hi3 quill may draw j 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie'3 awa I 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 

And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 

And Ettrick banks now roaring red , * 

While tempests blaw ; 
Cut every joy and pleasui-e's fled, 

Willie's awa I 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech : 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out lo bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget tliee ! Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa 1 

XII.' 

May never wicked fortune louzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle liim 1 
Until a pow as auld's Mathu? alem I 

He canty claw 1 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa I 



A FRAGMENT. 

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled > 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies I 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of deathl 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath — 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daj-ing 1 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

Bd'U gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 



Buisseaux—a. play on his own name. 



Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 
Except the moment that they crusht him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'era, 

And thought it sport.— 

Tho' he vvas bred to Kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To raak a man; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark. 

Ye roos'd him then I 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE. 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 
Oh Jenny's a' weet, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry : 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &o. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the glen ; 
Gin a body kiss a bo'.'y. 

Need the warld ken. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &o. 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.* 

YE sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Bums, and Maxwell, pervade every throng 
With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



BVm^S— Extempore. 

YE true " I,oyal Natives," attend to my song. 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 

* At this period of our Poet's life when political an- 
imosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
above foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns 
and his friends for their political opii.ions. They were 
written bv some member ofa club styling themselves 
the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united 
cenius'of that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectrtbility or poet- 
ical talent. The verses were handed over the table to 
Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endors 
ed the subjoined reply. Rehques, p, 168. 



124 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Prom envi'&nd hatred your corps is exempt ; 

Bat where is your shield from the darc of contempt I 



TO J. LAIPRAIK. 

Sept. nth. 1785. 
GUID speed an' furdnr to you Johnie, 
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brandy 

To clear your head 

Alay Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'mbizzie too, an' skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers liae wat it, 

Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
Au' took my Jocteleg an whatt it, 

Like ony elerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

. On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their beUs, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'U cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help orroose us. 
But browster wives and whiskie stills. 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
An' a' the viitel in the yard. 

An' Iheckil right, 
J mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua-vitze 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty. 

Till ye forget ye're auld au' gatty. 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than threlty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty I 



But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' nuw the sun keeks in the west, 



Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter, 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S 
PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REttUESTED. 

Sept. 17lh, 1785. 

WHILE at the stock the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r. 
Or in gidravage rinnm scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eene now she's dene it. 

Lest they should blame hei 
An' rouse theii- holy thunderon it 

And anathem ber. 

I own 'twas rash an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, kintra bardie. 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken oae, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their gi-imaces, 

Their sighan, cantan grace-prood faces, 

Their three mile prayers, an' hauf-m:le graces. 

Their raxan consciencei 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 

Waur nor iheir 



There's Gaun, ' miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast. 
Than mony scores as guid' s the priest 

■\\lia sae abus't him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him. 

What way they've use't 

See him j the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word au' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skelhiros, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

Tocowetheblellums? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

An' tell aloud 



' Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

t The poethas introduced the two first lines of the 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr Hamii- 



BURNS' POEMS. 



125 



Their Jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God know3,rmno the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times, I rather would be, 

All' atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be. 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause. 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken ; 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth. 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight. 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an ruth. 

To ruin streight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thme 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotcht an' foulwi' mony a stain, 
An' far unworthy of thy train, 
With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But helhsh spirit. 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground. 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as christians too renow'd, 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, m that circle you arenam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine'sblam'd 

(Wliich gies you honour) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 

Au' if impertinent I've been, 

Inipute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye, 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd 
But to liis utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MAUCHLINE. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mosgavilln, Matft 3 l^o, 

I HOLD i. Sir, myboundenduty 
To warn you how that Master Tootle, 

Al-.as, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away ^ 

Bout whom ye spake the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't afif han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him. 
Like Ecrapin out auld crummie's nicks. 

An' tellin lies about them ; 

Aslieve then I'd have then. 
Your clerkship he should sair, 

If sae be, ye maybe 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Aitho' I say't, he's gieg enough, 
An' bout a house that's rude au' rough, 
The boy might learn to swear i 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught. 
An' get sic fair example slraught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'U catechize him every quirk. 

An' shore him well wi' hell ; 

An' gare him follow to the kirk 

—Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be ther. 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your ady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 
In Paisley John's thatnightate'en, 

To meet the 'A'arld'sworm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
Ikenheweela ^'nicican draw, 

When simple bodies iet him ; 
An' if a Devil he a.la.\ 

In faith he's sure to get him. 

To phrase you an' praise you, 

YekenyoUjLaureat scorns : 

The prayer still, you snare stili, 

Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer 
in Cows. Itwas his common oractice to cut the nicka 
or markings from the horns of cattlj, to disguise their 
age.— He was an artful trick contriving character; 
lience he is called a Snick-drower. In the Poet's " Ad- 
dress to theDcil," he styUi that august personag.j 
an auld, snick-drawins di^g 1 



Reliques, p. 397. 



126 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO MR. M'ADAM 

OP GRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

In ans-xer to an obliging Letter he sent in the com 
mencement of Vt^ Poetic Career. 

SIR; o'er a gill I gat your cara, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wlia taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-tna-care about their jaw, 

The senseles^gawky million ; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'mroos'd by Craigen-Gillan I 

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel, 

To gi-eat 3'ourliigli protection : 
A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho ', by his banes wlia in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy I 
On my ain legs thro' dirt an' dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to guid warm kail, 

\Vi' welcome cannabear me ; 
A lep dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scoue shall cheer me. 

Hearea spare you langto kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tald the're loosome kimmers I 

And God biess young Dunaskin's laird, 

Theblossomof our gentry! 
And may he wear an auld mans beard 

A credit to his country. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

GLENRIDDEL. 

{Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

yOUR news and review, Sir, I've read through and 
through, Sir, 

Willi Uttle admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murderers or rapes wortli the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers andhewcrg, 

Are judge? of mortar and stone. Sir, 
But Mimeet, or unmeet, in ajabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose-quill loo rude is, to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world. Sir, should know it 1 



TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAT. 

HEALTH to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief I 
riealili, ay unsour'd by care or grief : 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf. 

This natal mom, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Seal ce quite half worn.-^ 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow It. 

If envious buckles view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengihen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure~< 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith lionest men and lasses bonnie. 
May couthie fortune, kind anil cannic, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings runny 

Bless them and thee I 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me. 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye. 

While Burns they ca' raa 



TO A LADT; 
With a Present of a Pair of Drinking- Glassea 

FAIR EmpreoS of the Poet's soul, 

And Q-ueen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses.— 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

♦' The whole of human kind J" 

" To these who love us .'" — second fill ; 

But not to tliose whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third—" to thte and me, love !" 

* Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, licar Dumfrle 



BURNS' POEMS. 



127 



THE VOWELS. 



A TALE. 

T was whet-e the birch and sounding thong are plied 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her diirkenin? vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs tlie thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

Acd call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enler'd A a grave, broad, solemn wight 
But, ah 1 deform'd, dishonest to thesiglit ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai J 

Reluctant E, stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face 1 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne 1 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman souid 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind. 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

Thecobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y I 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd, reply : 
The pedant swunp his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the grouad 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The waiUng minstrel of despairing wo ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of hi;; art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stoorl staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast. 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH.* . 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive "amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Tolish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 

* This sketch seems to be one of a Series, intended 
for a projected work, under the title " T/ie Poet's 
Prosress." This character was sent as a specimen, 
accompaniedby alet'.er to Professor Dugald Stewart, 
In which it is thus noticed. " The fragment beginning 
A little , itpright , perl, tart,&c. 1 have not shown to 
any man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the 
postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, shall be (ilaced in a variety of 
lights. This particular part 1 send you merely as a 
ample uf my hand at portrait sketching." 



His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the oid Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend; 
Still making work his selAsh craft must raend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries. 

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuft sae meikie courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try to gie us sangs aM<l plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.— 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy c' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doin^, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jav/s of ruin i 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Q,ueen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charmj 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arm*. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance o fa rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil^ 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page. 
But Douglases were heroes every age ; 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Doug/as followed to the martial strife. 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas lead 1 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would lake the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them, 
And aiblins when they wiiina stand the test, 
Wink liard and say, the folks hae done their best 1 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be cautiou 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back I 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here f 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your own bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike, — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikie kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us I we're but poor— ye'se get but tbanki. 



138 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 
ON BEING 

APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say I 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad muve the very heart's o' stanes ! 



On seeing '.ne beautiful Seat of Lord G, 

W HAT dost thou in that mansion fair 1 

Flit, G , and find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind 1 



On the Same. 

No Stewart art thou G , 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but/ooZs, 
Not one of them a kncne. 



On the Same. 

BRIGHT ran thy line, G , 

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire I 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the Author being tkreatenei with 
his Resentment. 

SPARE me thy vengeance, G , 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at ihyhand, 
For thou hast none to "ive. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD, 

TUNE—" The Dragon of Wantley." 
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did cai-ry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixtHa^ and Bob for the famous job— 

Who should be Faculty's Dean. Sir.— 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious £o6, 'mid learning's store, 

C(.mraai\dmeut tenth rememember'd.— 



Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that heaven can boil the poj. 

Though the devil p— s in the fire.— 

Squire HaZ, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

duite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose 01 J who should owe it all, d*ye see 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Rob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OP SESSION. 

TUNE—" Gillicrankie." 

LORD A TE. 

HE clench 'd his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declaraalion-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for 't, he graped for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what in common sense came shM^ 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ER— NE, 

Collected Harry stood awee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey 'd the gathering storm, man ; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyen 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



VERSES TO J. UANKEN. 

[7%c Person to whom his Poem on shooting the P(t' 
ridge is addressed, while Ranken occupied tkt 
Farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.'^ 



AE day, as death, that gruesome carl. 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie maxtie motley squad. 
And mony a guilt bespolted lad ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



129 



Black goTKrus of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that vi'ears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Asliara'd lumseli" to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 
" By G-d I'll not be seen behint tliem, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present thera, 
■Without, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threwr, 
*' L — D G-d !" quoth he, " I have it now 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath. 



On hearing that there was Falsehood in the Rev. 
Dr. B 's i;ery Looks. 

THAT there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeskire. 



HERE lie Willie M— hie's banes, 
O Satan, when ye tak him, 

Gie him the schulin of your weans ; 
For clever Deils he'll mak ein ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

{A Parody on Robin Adair.) 

YOU'RE Welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier.— 

How does Dampiere do ! 

Ay, and Bournonville too.'' 

Why did tliey not come along with you, Dumourier? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier.— 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier :— 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt— Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 
A SKETCH. 



FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'Mlet them die— foi- thai they're born ! 



But oh ! prodigious to reflec ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck I 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us 1 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's teugh 'tween Fitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maiggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupet, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet. 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'enmony a plack, and mony a' peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck I 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frieu' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'ea 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
An' no o'er auld, I hope to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has get thy Daddy's chair, 

Nae hand-cuft''d, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regen 

But, like himsel a full free agent. 

Be sure ye follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 

As rauckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



Written under the Portrait of Fergtisson, the Poet, 
in a copy of that author's works presented to a 
young Lady in Edinburgh, March 19, 1787, 

CURSE on ungrateful man, tliat can be pleas'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure I 
O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



F 2 



130 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONGS. 



UP IN THF MORNING EARLY. 

UP in the morning's no for me, 

Up in ihr. mornitig early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wi' snait, 

Fmsure it's winter fairly, 

COLD blaws the wind fi-ae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and slirill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly 

The birda sHchittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to mom, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, !;c. 



I DREAM'D 1 LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING.t 

I DREAM'D I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Liat'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream ; 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring 

O'er the swelling, dr-jmlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning. 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Thn' fickle fortune has deceived me. 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



B0NG4 

BEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, 
Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 

• Tho chorus is old. 

t These two stanzas I composed when I was seven- 
teen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. 
Bums' Reliquee, p. 242. 

1 1 composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann 
Maslerton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterloii, 
the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, and two 
•r three others in this work, Bums^ Relives, p. 266, 



Her comely face sae fu' o'grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright , like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her gently waist 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant more, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a' 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONG. 
MY BONNIE MARY.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

An' fill it m a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae tl>/j ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maunlea'emy bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Tlie glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langerwish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar. 

It's lea vmg thee, my bonnie Mary. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

THERE'S a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonuie and braw, weel-favour'd with a' 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and hisshoon like the slae. 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a' 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mouated and 
braw : 



* This air is Oswold ; the first half at 
son? is old. 



t This air is claimed by Niel Gow, who caBs it Us 
lament for his brother. The first halfttanza of \kM 
sor.g is old. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



131 



But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 
The peunie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — 

There's Meg wi' the mailen, that faia wad a haen 
him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tochei''d Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

—But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a' 



SONG. 
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.* 

My heart's in th« Highlands, my heart is not here ; 

My heart's in the Highland's a-chasiiig the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North 

The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 

The liills of the Highlands for ever I love, 

Farew^ell to themouniains high covered with snow ; 

Farewell to the straths and gi-een valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 

My heart's in the HigUands, wherever I go. 



THE RANTING DOG THE DADDIE O'T. 

O WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? 

Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will lass me w'.)are I lie ? 

The rautindog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will own he did the faul .' 

Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 

The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the crespie-chair, 

Wha will sit beside m» there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 

The ranting dog the daddie o't.— 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 

Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'erpgain ? 

The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 



SONG. 

1 DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 
no confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

• The first half stanza is old. 



Had I na found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart could muv«„ 



I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 
Thy favours are the silly wind 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy 1 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shall be thrown aside. 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



SONG.* 
TUNE—" Craigie-burn Wood."T 
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And Oto be lying beyond thee, 

sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, 
ThaVs laid in the bed beyond thee. 

SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn- wood . 

And bUthly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wooii 

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 

Beyond thee, Sfc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers^ 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane tor me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 

Beyond thee, Sfc 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret.lovs will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, S;c. 

I seethe gracefu', straight and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonnie, 
But oh, what will my torments be. 

If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 

Beyond thee, SfC. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 

In love to lie and languish, 
'Twad be my dead, that will he seen, 

My heart wad burst wi'"tinguish. 

Beyond thee, Sj-c. 

* It is remarkable of this place that it is the confine 
of that country where the gi-eatest part of our Lowland 
music (so far from the title, works, &c. we can local- 
ize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, n^ar 
Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we hava 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The songwas composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss 
Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpciale. The young 
lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood. — The chorus is 
part of an old fiolish ballad. 

Bums' Reliques, p. 284. 

t The chorus is old.— Anrther copy of this will b« 
found ante, p. 101 



L32 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But Jeanie, say tliou wilt be mine, 
Say,'.hou lo'es iiane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, (fC. 



SONG. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heatlier to 

feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 
Where the grouse, Sfc. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, 
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Jllc stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, allho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma' in her share ! 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But 1 lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
Jn her amour of clances, and blushes, and sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement ha' polished her darta. 
They dazzle our cen, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindnoss, in the fond sparkKnge'e. 
Has lustre oulshiiiinp ihe diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all coniiuering charms. 



- SONG. 

WIIA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR? 

WFTA is that at my bower door ? 

O whaisit but Findlay; 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
Wliat mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo" Fiiullay; 
Before the morn ye'U work mischief? 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay: 
Ye'd keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should slay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
. fear ye'U bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' FiudUy. 



Here this night if ye remain, 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'U learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower, 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour | 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay I 



SONG.* 

TUNE-" The Wearer and his Shuttle, 0." 

MY Father was a Parmer upon the Carrick border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a far. 

thing, 
For whhout an honest manly heart, no man waa worth 

regarding, 0. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine. O 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great waa 
charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet ray edu- 
cation ; O 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O, 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortime's fa. 

vour ; O 
Some cause unseen, still slept between, to frustrate 

each endeavour; 
Sometimes by foes 1 was o'erpower'd ; sometimes by 

friends forsaken ; O 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was woral 

mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune'a 

vain delusion ; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 

conclusion ; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill 

untried ; O 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- 
friend me ; O 

So I must toil, and sw^eat and broil, and labour to su»' 
tain me, O 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me early ; O 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for. 
tune fairly, O, 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm 
doom'd to wander, O 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slum- 
ber: O 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me 
pain or sorrow ; O 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor 
row, O. 

* Tins 80'ig is wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in 
versilicalion, but as the sentiments are the genidne 
'eelingsof mv heart, for that reason I have apartic.ilar 
pleasure in conning it over. Burn's Reiiquee, p. 339. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



133 



Bat cheerful slill, I am as well, Aa a monarch in a pa- 

Kce, O 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her 

wofited malice ; O 
I make intleerl, my daily breai3, but ne'er can make it 

farther; O 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard 

her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O 
Some untoreseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me; O 
Misdiance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 

folly; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, 0. 

vna who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view 
the farther ; O 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O 

A cheerful-he.arted honest clown I will prefer before 
you, O. 



SONG. 

THO' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's tlie pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly enlwijie. 

The' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



SONG. 

AE fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say tliat fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves liim ' 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Iiove but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 



Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest 
Thine be ilka joy and treaaure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure t 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae fareweel, alas, for everl 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 

Waning sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



SONG. 

NOW BANK AN' BRAE ARE CLAITH'D 
IN GREEN. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring. 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'eningfa'a. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonuie blink o' Mary's e'e 

The child wha' boasts o' warld's weaitji, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain. 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair! 
Then let me range my Cassillis' bank», 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e 1 



SONG. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAH AWA 

O HOW can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 
It's no the driving drift and snav ; 

But ay the tear conies in my e'e. 
To think on him that 's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door. 
My friends they hae disown'd me a' 

But I hae ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that 's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me. 
And silken snoods he gave me twa ; 

And I will w^ear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that 's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 
And spring will deed the birken-shav } 

And my sweet babie will be born. 
And he'll come hame that 'b far awa. 



134 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 

OUT over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east g:ie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers maybe ; 

For far in the west Uves he I lo'e best, 
TUd lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



SONG. 

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 
I'LL ay ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonuie Jannie again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my faires^ f.iillifu' lass, 
And stowlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aikia tree. 
When trystin-time" draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form 1 see, 
O h&ilh, she's doubly dear again! 



SONG. 

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T 
FIRST when Maggy was my care, 
Ileav'n, I thought, was in the air; 
Now we're married— spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave cr.'l.— 
Meg was meek, and Me? was mild, 
Bon'\ie Meg was nature's child — 
—Wiser men than me's beguil'd : 

Whistle o'er the lave on't. 



How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see : 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
"What I wish were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write— but Meg maun see' 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— 



SONG. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

YOUNG Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here {iwa ; 
T~yst:n-timc~The time of appointment 



Fu' blithe he whistled at the?au(t 
Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha . 

He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 
He roos'd my waist sae gently sraa ; 

An' ay my heart came to my mou, 
When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and si 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hamewardca', 
An' ay the r.ight comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' : 
And ay he vows he'Ube my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG. 



M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
TUNE—" M'Pherson's Lament." 

FAREWELL ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretches destiiiie ! 
M'Fherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae ranting?!/, sae wantonly, 

Sae daunting/y gaed he; 
He play'd a spring and danc'd it rcmnd, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath?— 

On moiiy a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ? 
Sae rantingly, !fc. 



Untie these bands from off my hands 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotlaod, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
iSae rantingly, S(c. 

I've live'd a life of sturt and s*j-ife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 
Sae rantingly, &.c. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bri^t, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distam his name. 

The wretch that dares not die j 
Sae rantingly, &.C. 



SONG. 

HERE'S a bottle and an honesv friend ! 

What wad ye wish for roair, man i 
Wha kens, before liis life may end. 

What his share may be of care, man f 



BURNS' POEMS. 



135 



Then catch the moments as they fl?, 
Aud use them as ye ought, man ;— 

Believe rae, happiness is shy, 
And comes not ay when sought, man. 



SONG. 
TUNE-" Braes o* Balquhidder/ 

ni Iriss thee yet, yet, 
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again, 

An' I'll kiss thee yet yet, 
My bor,nie Peggy Alison! 

ILK care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mairdefy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O I 

I'll kisa thee, 1,-c. 

When in my arms, wi' a thy charms, 
1 clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

1 seek nae mairo' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ; 
I'llkissthee, !fc. 

And by thy een , sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O j— 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O 1 
rilUesthee &c. 



SONG. 
TUNE— "If he be a Butcher neat and trim.' 

ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The gi-aces of her weelfar'd face. 
And the glancin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 

When rising Phoebus first is seen. 
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparling een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
Tliat grows the cowslip braes between, 

And slioots its heada'^ove each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' ahe's twa glancin sparkiin een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb. 

When flow'ry May adorns the scene. 
That v/antons round its bleating dam ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountainsitle at e'en. 



When flow'r-reviving rains are pait ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock batiks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt tlie taste and charm the sight; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount tlie rising steep ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phccbus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she twa glancin sparkhn een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparklin een. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

WAE is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lane;, lang joy's been a stranger to me ; 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear. 
And therweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in tnyear. 

Love, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved ; 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I'can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle gteea t 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



TUNE—" Banks of Banna. 

YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen iay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er Ills manna, 
Was naething to my hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 



136 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ye monnrclis, lak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna I 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
■While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna 1 

Awa thou flounting god o' day I 

Awa thou pale Diana 1 
Ilk slar gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to. meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumasie, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ; 



SONG.' 

THE Deil cam fiddling thro' the town. 
And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman ; 

And ilka wife ory'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' the prize mau. 

«< IVeHlmak ourmaut, nnd brew our drink, 
yVe'll dance nnd sing and. rejoice man ; 

And many thanks to the muckle black Veil, 
T!iat danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

•' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
Tnere'a hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian,' 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
We'Umak our maut, Sfc. 



SONG. 

POWERS celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards tlie virtuous fair, 
Wliile in distant climes I wander 

Let my Mary be your care : 
I,Pt her form sae fair and faultless, 

I'air and faultless as yourown ; 
I.ttmy Mary's kindred spirit. 

Draw your choicest iufluencc down. 

Make the gales you waft around her. 

Soft and peaceful as her breast : 
Breatlunginthe breeze that fans her 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
10 realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom slill my home.t 



• At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dum- 
fries, Burns, being called upon for a Song handed 
these verses extempore to the President written on the 
back of a letter. 

t Prohablv written on Highland Mary, on the eve of 
the I'oei's d'eparluvelo the West Indies. 



HUNTING SONG. 

I RED you BEWARE AT THE HUNTINO. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows mawn, 
Our lads gaeda-hunting, ae day at the dawn. 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, 
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen. 

Ired you beware at the hunting, youngmen; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men : 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 
But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-ken. 

Sweet brusliing the dew from the brown heather bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

Ired,i(C. 

Auld Phoebus himscl, as he pcep'd o'er the hill; 
In spite ai her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae— 
His rays were outshone, and but marked where shotay. 
I red, !fc. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight ! — 
Ired,((c. 



YOUNG PEGGy. 
YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The ri.sy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them. 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sigh'., 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild. 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 

Such sweetness would relent her. 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detract'.on's eyes no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen : 
And fretful envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd toolli to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth ~ 

The destinies hitcnd her ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



137 



sun Ian the sweet connubial flame 
Reiponsive in each bosom ; 

Ami bless the dear parental name 
WitJi many a filial blossom.* 



UNE— " The King of France, lie rade a Race. 

AMAN'i the trees when humming bees 

At buds and flowers were lianging, O 
;^uld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe wa3 singing ; O 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them afl", fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O— 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs gi-ow eerie, O 
The hungry bike did scrape an pike 

Till we were wae and weary ; O 
But a royal gliaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen yearawa, 
lie fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 



TUNE — " John Anderson my Jo. 

ONE night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Ayre ran by before me, 

And bicl<er'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braea. 



TUNE—" Daintie Davie." 

rilERE was a lad born at Kyle,t 
But what na day o' wliat na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin^ Boy, 

RantW rovin'; ranliri' rovin', 

* This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. 
It IS copied from a MS. book, wliioh he had before his 
6rat publication. 

t /ly/e— a district of Ayrsliire. 



Robin was a roviti' Boy, 
Rantiii' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but an* 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Cluo' Bcho wlia lives will see the proof, 
Tills wuly boy will be nae coof, 
1 think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and ama* 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
Ho'llbeacrcdittillusa', 
We'll a' be jn-oud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nln^^ 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin, 

Guid faith quo scho I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses • • • * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur 
So blessin's ou thee, Robin, 

Robin was a rovin Boy, 
Rantin' rovin\ rantin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin, 



TUNE—" I had ae Horse and I had nae ) 

WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady, 
Where'er 1 gaed, where'er 1 rade 

A mistress still I had ay : 
But when I came roun' by Maucldine 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a MauchUne lady. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Galla Water." 

ALTHO' my bed were in yon muir, 
Afftang the heather, in my plaidle, 

Yet hn])py, Imppy would I be 

Had 1 my dear Montgomerie'a Peggy.— 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
And winter iiit;lits were dark and rainy l 

I'll seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's I'eggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 
And horse aad servauiU waiting ready, 



138 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to mc, 
The sharin't with Montgonierie's Peggy. 



SONG. 
O RAGING fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
My stem was fair, iny bud was green 

My blossom sweet did blow ; 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow; O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossom's low, O 
But luckless fortune'a northern storraa 

L«aid a' my blossom's low, O. 



PATRIOTIC— K7i^nfs/»ei. 

HERE'S a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha wir.na wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa'. 

It's guid to be merry and wise, 

It's guid to be lionest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

fere's a health to Charlie,' the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' thai his f^nd be but sma' 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny time in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil 1 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie,t the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be 

heard, 
But they w ham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd 

The' bred amang mountains o' snaw I 



SONG 

THH PLOUGHMAN. 

As I WH» b wand ring ae morning in spring, 
I bsard a ywing Ploughman sae sweetly to sing, 
•C Fox. tLord Erskiue. 



And as he was singin' thir words he did say. 
There's nae life like the Ploughman in the month • 
sweet May — 

The lav'rock in trie morning she'll rise frae her neit, 
And mount to the air wi' the dew on iier breast. 
And wi' the merry Ploughman she'll whistle and ling, 
And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



SONG. 



HER flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to tling j 
And round that neck entwine her I 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
0, what a feast, her boiinie mou ! 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prestwi' care and sunk in wo. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there ray bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear I 



THE winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last* 
And the small birds sin^ on every tree ; 

Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear. 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at 
rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE 
HOUSE. 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 



J'e6rurary,1787, 



MY canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
1 baminsdoubt, it is na true man, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



J 39 



That ye between the stilts were brad, 

Wi' ploughmeaschool'd, wi- ploughmen fed. 

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your Jinowledge 

Either frae grammar-school, or college, 

Guid troth, your saul and body baith 

War' better fed, I'd pie my ailh, 

Thau theirs, v/ho n.n sour milk and parritcli, 

An' bumniil thro' the single caritch, 

Wha' ever heard the ploughman speak. 

Could tell gif ilomer was a Greek 1 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes 

O' Willie i — t and Charlie F—x. 

Our great men a' sau weel describe, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer. 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

An' though the cauld I ill can bide, 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride, 

O'er moss, an' muir, an' never gi-unible, 

Tho' my auld yad should gie a stumble. 

To crack a winter night wi' thee. 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 
Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming yill. 

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill. 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

An' ferli* at their wit and wine. 

0' gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled pluid ; 

'Twad hand your shoulders warm and braw. 

An' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 

For south, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the ?naud. 

Right wae that we're sae far frae ither ; 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 

Your most obed't. 



THE ANSWER. 

Guidwife. 

I MIND it weel, in earle date, 

When 1 was beardless young, andblate, 

An' first could ihresh lbs barn , 
Or baud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' for fonghten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckou'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
iStiU sliearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 

Wi' claivers, an' haivers. 

Wearing the day awa.-- 



E'en then a wish, (I mind itspowsr,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Sliall strongly lieave my breast; 
"That 1 for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some u^efu' plan, or book could make, 

Or singa sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wida 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 
Ru', olill the elements o' sang 
In formless jumble, right an' wrang. 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain. 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle, 
I fired. Inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared ay to speak. 

Hale to the set, each guid chiel saya, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common: 
The gust o' joy, the balm o' wo, 
The saul o' life, tlie heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name 

Be rnindfu' o' your mither ; 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae i, .'en, ye're nae men, 
1'hat slight the lovely dears ; 
The shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 
For you, na bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 
IJouse liingin o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang hale then, 

An' plenty be your fa ; 
My losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 

ROBERT BURN9. 
March, 17S7. 

SONG. 
TUNE—" The tither mom, as L .'jiioru." 

YON wand'ringrill, that marks thehiU 
And glances o"er the brae, .Sir • 



uo 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SUdei by ii bower where monya (lower, 
Sliiidos frttgraiice on Clie day, Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love Ihuy thouglit lute crime, t^ir ; 

The Willi birds snug, the echoes rniiir, 
Wliile Unlnon't hetirl beat time, Sir. 



AS I cam in by our gatc-eiul, 

As day was waxen we»ry ; 
wild cam tripping down the street, 

Uut bounio I'eg, my dearie. 

Her air sac sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The (jneen of love, did never more, 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wj' linked hands, we took the sands, 

Adowii yon winding river. 
And, Oh I that hour, :in' broomy bower, 

Cau 1 forget it ever ? 



POLLY STEWART. 
TUNE—" Ye're welcome Charlie Stewart. 

O LOVELY Polly Stewart, 

O charnung Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as Uiou art. 

The flower it blaws. It fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youlb, 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whnse arms shall fa old thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be fjiven to ken the heaven 

lie grasps in Polly Stewart I 
O love!:/, !fc. 



THERE W.VS A CONNIE LASS. 

THERE was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnielass, 

And she lo'ej her bonnie ladilic dear ; 
Till war's loud aUrnis tore her laddie frae her arms, 

Wi' nionv a sisrh and a tear. 
Over sea, over snore, where the cannons loudly roar, 

He still was a stranger to fenr ; 
And nocht could him ipiell, or his bosom assail, 

Oui the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae Jear. 



TlhBIE DUNBAR. 

TUNE— "Johnny M'Gill." 

<; WILT il:ou so wi' mo, sweet Tibbie Punbar j 
O will thou to wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar j 



Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a ev 
Or walk by my siile, O sweet Tib! ie Unnbar? 
I curena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sac high ond sac lordly : 
But say thnu will hac me for belter for waur. 
And come In thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Duubar. 



ROBIN SUURE IN IIAlRST. 

ROniN shurc In hairst, 

I shure wi' him, 
Fienl a heuk had T, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I ^ed up to Dnnsc, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden, 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met rae but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' 1 was a cotter, 
riay'd me sic a trick 

And me the eller'sdochler? 
liobin shwe, ifc. 

Robin promis'd mo 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fienl haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
liubiiishuic, !fc. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S G AIRS UPON"! 

MY lady's gown (here's gairs upon't. 
And gowJeu flowers sae rare iipon't; 
But Jenny's jimps and Jirkinel, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upoii't. 

My lord a hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nunci. 
By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 
A/y lady's gowii, &c. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' C'assillis' blude. 
But her (en-pund landA> o' tocher guld, 
Were u' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
All/ lady's gourn, ifc. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moat, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather paia, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 
My lady's go ten, !)-c. 

Sac sweetly move hergcuty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns; 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
My lady's go len, Sfc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



141 



My Udv'ffUnlfi my Iafly'»dresl, 
Tliu lli)wcr and fuiicy o' Uiu went ; 
JJut the liisHie lliat a man hi'cn l)i;Bt, 
O U'iiI'h the ksi to rtiakcliirn blbiit. 
Mij lady's gown, HfC. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

WHR Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
reel a willow-wuiul to be him hoots and jacket : 
The roue upon the brier will be liim trou«e and doublet, 
'i'he rose upou the brier will be him trouoe and doublet. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be in him sark and cravat: 
Ecalhers ot a flee w^d feii'hcr ■!:> hiw lionnnt. 
Feathers of a flee wad feal'u-r un hiu bonnet. 



THE NORTHERN LASS. 

THO' cruel fate Bhould l)id UBpart, 

Far as the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains rise, and descrlthowl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my dealldeBS soul, 

I (till would love my Jean. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 

COtJLD aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
Tho muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee. 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach llie lyre to languish ; 
But wha*. avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover ; 

And in the keen, yet lender eye, 
O read th' Imploring lover. 

For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdain's art's gay disguising ; 

Beyond what fancy e'er re fin 'd, 
The voice of nature prizing. 



O GUID ALE COMES. 

GUID ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart nboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' weel enough, 

I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid itle keeps my heart aboou. 



Guid ale hands mc bare and buoy. 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hi/.xie, 
Stand i' the stoul when I l)ue done, 
Guid alo keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, and guid ale goet, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belle*, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are bailed hooka 

Fur rakish rooks, like Rub Alossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youlljlui lancies rcei, 
They heat your brains, and lire your vein* 

And then you're prey for Rob Mosigiet. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Ti« rakish art in liob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress. 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steely 
The frank address, and politessa. 

Are all finesse in liob Moasgicl. 



O AY :.I i \7Al. y/iiJ CANvJ Mm 

O A Y my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife she bang'd me J 
If ye gie a woman a' her will. 
Good faith she'll soon o'ergaiig ya. 

'Jn ,i4io; and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some salrie comfort still at last, 
When a' their days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earlh. is past, 
I'm sure u' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, S(C. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE. 

THE bairns gat out wi' an uncoshout. 

The deuksdang o'er my daddic, O 1 
The fienl ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife, 

He was but a paidUn body, o S 
He paidles out, and he paidles In, 

An' he paidles late and earlie, O ; 
This seven lang years I hae lain by his -Sde, 

An' he is but a fusionless earlie, O. 

O had your tongue, my feirie auld wife 
O had your tongue now, Nftn»ie, : 



145 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I've seen Hie day, and sae nae ye, 
Ye wadna been sae donsic, O ; 

I've seen the day ye butler'd my brose, 
And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O ; 

But downa do's come o'er me now, 
And, Oh, I find it sairly, O 1 



DELIA. 



AN ODE. 

FAIR the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blown. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightlul still, 
Steal thine accents on my ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-browu'd Arab's lip j 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove 1 

O let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For Oh 1 my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON A BANK OP FLOWERS. 

ON a bank of flowers one summer's day. 

For summer lightly dress'd, 
The'youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep oppoess'd ; 
When Willy, wand'riiigthro' the wood. 

Who for her favour oft had su'd, 
Be gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

Aud trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gai'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Hei' robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace. 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A fiatiering ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd. he fear'd, he blush'd. 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 
On fear inspired wings ; 



So Nelly startling, half twahv, 

Away aflVighled springs 
But Willy fullow'd as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood, 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found tbeiDoid 

Forgiving all and good. 



EVAN BANKS. 

SLOW spreads the gloom my soul deiire*, 

The sun from India's shore retires ; 

To Evan banks with temperate ray 

Home of my youth, it leads the day. 

Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 

Oh I stream whose murmurs still I hear I 

All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 

Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh. 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she with heart iinchang'd as mine, 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline .•* 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry bruigs. 
All that on Evan's border springs ? 
Sweet banks I ye bloom by Alary 's side: 
Blest stream 1 she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ? 
Return, ye moments of delight. 
With richer treasure bless my sight 1 
Swift from this desert let me part. 
And fly to meet a kindred heart I 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyd« 



THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 
TUNE—" Chevy Chace." 

THERE were five Carlins in the south. 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame. 

But do our errands there, 
And aibling gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



14f 



There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith,* 

A dame wi' pride enough ; 
And Majorie o' the moiiie Loch,t 

ACarlinauld an' teugh. 

And blinkiil Bess o' Annanddle,t 

That dwells near Solway side, 
And whisky lean that took her gill§ 

In Galloway so wide. 

And aiild black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin. 
Five weiglitier Carliiis were na 'bund 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And inoriie a Knight and monie a Laird 

That errand fain would gae. 

O I monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O 1 ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted Kolght, 

Bred o' a border band. 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say, 
Andwka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then nicst came in a eodger youth 

And 8|)ak wi' modest grace, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

If Eae their pleasure was. 

He wad na liecht them courtly gift. 

Nor meikle speech pretend ; 
But he wad hecht an honest heart 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whom to choose and whom refuse ; 

To strife thae Carlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folk to please. 

And some wad please themsei. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auldguidman o' Lon'on court 

She did not care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' A nnandale : 

A deadly aiih she's ta'en. 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

'Dumfries. tLochraaben. J Annan. 

§Kii-k udbright. Sancjuhar, 



For far off fowls hae feathers fair. 

An' fools o' change are fain: 
But I hae tried the border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton |*eel, 

A Carlin stout and grim. 
The auld guidman or young guidman : 

For me may sink or swim 1 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang. 
While knaves laugh then to sci.rn ; 

But the Sodger's friends hae blawn the belt 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken kimmcrs a'. 
The auldguidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd bit caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow rose Majorie o' the Lochi, 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as hght by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wha I lo'e beet at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himaei. 



THE LASS THAT MADE THK BED TO MB. 

WHEN January winds were blawing Cbuld, 

As to the north I bent my way. 
The mirksome nighi did me enfauld, 

I kenn'd na whare to lodge till day ; 
By my guid luck a lass I met, 

Just in the middle of my care. 
And kindly she did me invite. 

To walk into a chamber fair, 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
1 bow'd fu'low unto this maid. 

And bade her make abed for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 
• Wi' iwa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lijis. 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye •ovmd." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed: 

But I call'd her quickly back again, 
To lay some raair below my head : 



144 



BURNS' POEMS. 



k rod she laid below my head, 

Ar.d served me with due respect ; 
.*i>Q (.0 salute her with a kiss, 

1 put my arms about her neck. 

« Haudaff your hands, young man," says she. 

And dinna sae uncivil be : 
Gif ye hae ony love for me, 

wrang na my virginity !" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivory, 
Her cheeks like lilies di pt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed for me. 

Her boaom was the driven snaw, 

Twadrified heaps sae fair to fee ; 
Her limbs the pclish'd marble stone, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day 

Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

1 thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay sheblush'd, and ay she sigh'd. 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I ciasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinkling in her e'e, 
I said, "my lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 

Slie took her mither's Holland sheets. 
And made them a' in sarks to me ; 

Blythe and merry may she be. 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me ; 

IM ne'er forget, till the day that I die, 

. The lass that made the bed to me. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 
ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 

Ltl me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast , has been blawn in the wast, 

That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac.t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' ten-or ; 
To join faith and sense upon any pretence. 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief abrewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief. 

And orator BobJ is it's ruin. 

b'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, t'no' your heart's like 
jL child, 
And your life like the new driven snaW, 

* Tliis Poem was written a short time after the pub- 
lication of Dr. M'Gill's Essay. 
^Dr.MGill. \Vi 1 A— k— «. §Mr.D— m-le 



Ye that winna save ye, auld Satan must hare y«. 
For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John,* Rumble John, mount the steps wl' a 
groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal t.rimslone like addtoi 

And roar every note of the damn'd. A 

Simper James,t Simper James, leave the fair Killie 



There's a holier place in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead 
For puppies like you there's but few 

Singet Sawney,! Singet Sawney, are ye herding th« 
penny, 

Unconscious wliat evils await.' 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every aoul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,§ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the faujd, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,TI Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do 
muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boait, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Groose,** Jamie Groose, ye hae made but toons 
roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L^kI's haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet WiUie,tt Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a ToUey, 
Wi' your liberty's chain ami your wit ; 

O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er laid a stride 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he s— t. 

Andro Gouk,:{;t Andro Goiik, ye may slander the book, 
And the book nane the waur let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig,. 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value 

Barr Steenie,§§Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what 
mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and sense, 

Wi' the people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side,1T1I Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock pride^ 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev«n your faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

♦ Mr. R— ss-ll . t Mr. M' K-y. 

J Mr M y. §Mr. A-d. 

ITMj-.G — tofO— 1— e. •• Mr. Y— gofC— B— Jt. 
iof A— r. iTDr. A.M— U 



ttMr. P— b— s ( 
^S Mr. f 
ilTIMr. 



^S Mr. S n Y g of B r 

---■ - -hofQ- 



BURNS' POEMS. 



145 



rtnlrland Jock,* Mulrland Jock, when the L— d mak<;£ 
a rock 

To crush comraon sense for lier sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Wlll.t Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull. 

When ye'pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a sant, 

Wha should swing in a rope for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; f 

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wL' your priest-skelping 
turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie. 

She cou'd ca' ua nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes I 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O I dool to tell, 
Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themael. 

O, yi——y, man, and wordy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'U see how new-light herds will whistle 

And think it fine 1 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs 1 wha e'er wad hae expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid, 
Bui by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock w' M— y's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poisou'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvii. swell, ay clear they drank, 
O sic a feast I 
The thummart wil'-cat, brock and tod^ 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smeli'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

Aud sell their skin. ' 



^Mr.S 



t An Elder in M- 



What herd like R X\ toll'd his tale ? 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dalCi 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep ilka tail, 

'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 
And new-fight herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin, 
Couldshake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa— ! do I live to see't— 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neilher's lien' I 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostie A — D, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work tliem, hot and cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scaKe a new herd that we get. 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hofJte frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D— e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S— 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paw*. 

Auld W w lang has hateh'd mischief. 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
Put he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed hira, 
A chiel wha'll soundly bufi'our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And many a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amangoursel, 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but agray nick quill, 

And that ye'Ufin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and f%lls, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themselves. 

To choose their herd*. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

ThatbitetsM W 



46 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



be bauish'd o'er the sea to France ; 
Let bim bark llit;re. 

Then Sliaw's and D'rymple's elo'iuencc, 

M' U'» close nervous excellence, 

M'Gl-— — 'a pallielic Manly sense, 

Anagiii.lM' h 

■yVi' g th, wha thro' llie heart can glance, 

Mivy «.' putkafl'. 



EPISTLE FROM A TAYLOR 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 

WHAT waefu' news is this I hear, 
Prae greeting I can scarce furhear, 
Folks tell nie, ye're gawn all' this year, 

Oiite'r tiiesca, 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee 

Weei wad I like war ye to stay. 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I hae a word yet mair to say. 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect us night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee companie. 
And, Robin, whan ye conic to die, 

Ye '11 won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Bome tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To gel a wean, an' curse an' swear, 
I'm uuco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sica trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forlu'ar, 

1 wad be glad. 

Fi' wetl ye ken ye'll gang io hell, 
Gin ye persist in doing ill— 
Waes rae : ye're hurliu down the hill 

VVithouien dread, 
An' 7e'il get leave to swear your fill 

Alter ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'll get near, 
But getlin weans ye will forbear. 
Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear 

Come, gic's a kiss— 
Nae kissing there— y»'ll grin «n' sneer. 

All' iiher hiss. 

O Rab. .*yby thy foolish tricks. 
An' steer nae mair the female sex ; 
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll see ; 
Ya'U find hard living wi' Auld Nicks ; 

I'm wae for ihee. 



But what's this comes wi'sicakneU, 
Aniaist «s loud as ony boll .'' 
While il does niuk my conscience tell 

Mi what is true, 
I'm but a rugget cowtmysel, 

Owre sib to you 

We're owre like those wlia think it til. 
To slulVllHjir noddles fu' o' wit. 
An' yet consent in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let them »c» down to the pit, 

Thai lang, dark nigkl, 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa', 
May he thai made us keep us a', 
For that would be a dreadfu' fa' 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, lak care. 



THE ANSWER. 

WHAT ails ye now, ye loiisy b h, 

To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh mun 1 hue mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
1 did na suffer ha'f sae much 

Fra Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when 1 grow crouse 
I gie their wames a random pousc, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sael 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 
An' jag the Pae. 

King David o' poetic brief. 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
Asfill'd bis after life wi' grief 

An' bloody ranta, 
An' yet he's rank'd among the chief 

O' lang syne 



And may be, Tam, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drunken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clouiy's haunts, 

An unco slip yet. 
An' snugly sit amang the saunis 

At Davie's hip yeVi 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan. 
Than garrau lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre bodj 
And sairly thole their milher's ban. 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How 1 did with the Session sort— 
AuldClinkumal the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, " RoM« 
Come hither, lad, an anawer for't, 

Ye're blano.'d for jobbin." 



BURNS' POEMS. 



147 



Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' Bnoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair conl'es»iun, 

I scoruVl to He : 

An' iync Mesa John, beyond expression. 

Fell foul o'me. 

A fornicator lown he call'd rne, 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 
I own'd the tale ivastrue .le tellM me, 

" But what the matter?' 
Qiao' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you," quo' he, " and what for no 1 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it afT, an' what for no 

Your dearest member?' 

" Na, na," quo' T, " I'm no for that. 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fau'f , 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it. 

OrginyeKke to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ilher. 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegilher, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said, " Guid night," and cam awa', 

And left the Session ; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O GOUDIE! terroro' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Gimin looks back, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w — ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll neer get better, 



Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an uuco ripple. 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See how she fetches at the ilirapple, 

An' gasps for brcatb. 



Enthusiasm's past redemption, , 
Gaeo in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her, 
Her feeble purse gies strong presumption, 

Death soon will end her 

'Tisyou and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 

A loom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarreU 



LETTER TO J S T T GL NC- 

AULD comrade dear and brither sinnet, 
How's a' the folk about Gl— nc — r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wuid, 
That's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me my faculties are fro7.en, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'n : 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage Philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appca.ing. 
Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic jargon tired, 
An' in the depths of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly 
Peruse them an' return them quickly; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Tillby an'by,if Ihaudon, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by a gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to »uid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honett men ; 
When bendingdown with auld gray hairs. 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May he who made him still support him. 
An' views beyotid the grave comfort bin* 
His worthy farn'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



• Dr. Taylor cf Norwich, 



148 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OP 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

THE lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy sunk beneath the western wave, 

TL" inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled iu the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Ormus'd where limpid streams, once hallow 'd well, t 
Or raould'ring ruins mark the sacred faue.J 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round ihe beetling rocks, 
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groa-Uig !rees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startling eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of wo that frantic beat her breast. 
And raix'd her waitings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo. 
The lightning cf her eye in tears imbued. 

* The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

t St. Ai»tho«y'» Well. 1 St. Anthony's Chapel. 



Revers'd that spear, redoubtable m war ; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a dealhful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.— 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and liaed arms she cried; 

' Low lies the hand that oft wasstretch'd to save, 
Low lies the heart thatswcil'd with honest pride I 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tears, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.— 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms ricHy blow; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low;— 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless namet 

No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
And future ages hear his growuig fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender carea, 
Thro' future times to make his virtue lart. 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs"— 
She said, and vauisli'd with the sweepiug bi«»t. 



Tmm 3®%ww mmmmAmn. 



A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 

WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird 
Or, waving like thebauckie" bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' l)itter skyte, 
Ao^ infant frosts begin to bite^ 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie garigrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nar.sie's held thesplore, 
To drink their era duddies ; 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and theyisang ; 
Wi' jumping and tliumping 
The Vera girdle rang, 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets wami, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The timber skelpin kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup. 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He 1 oar'd this ditty up— 



TUNE— " Soldier's Joy." 

I ,A M a son ot Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoraiBgthe French at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, §-c. 



My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his 

last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; 
I serv'd out my trade when tl^e gallant game was play 'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, Sfc. 

The old Scottish name for the Bat. 



I lastly was with Curtis, anaong the floating jatt'rIeBi 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my slumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, Ifc. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum. 

Lai de daudle, SfC. 

What tho' the hoary locks, I must stand the windf 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the to'her bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of h-U at the sound of the drum. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kehars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar j 
While frighted rattans backward leak, 

And seek the benmost bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl 'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

TUNE-" Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie. 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, fyc. 

The first of my lovers was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum viras his trade ; 
His leg was so tight , and his cheek v/as so ruddy. 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, Ifc, 

But the goodly old chaplain left him in the lurch. 
So the sword 1 forsook for the sake of the church. 
He venlur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my s>dger laddie. 

Sin;, Lal de lal, tfc. 



150 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Pull soon I grew sick of the sanctified sol, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gildedspontoonto the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &,c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
Hiu rags regimental they flutter'd sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lalde lal, fyc. 

And now I have liv'd— I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, §-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neiik, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na what the chorus took. 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy 
At length, wi' drink and courlh.g dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Griizy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. .. 
TUNE—" Auld Sir Symon." 

SIR Wisdom's a fool when he's fou 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 
He's there hut a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk ; 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of one that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk. 

For civilly swearing and quafiing ; 
I ance was abus'd i' the kirk. 

For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 

Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 
There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court, 

A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 

Makes faces to tickle the mob ; 
He rails at our mountebaiik squad 

It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel, 

Guds L— d, is fiu- dafter than I. 



RECITATIVO, 

Then niesl outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weelto deck the sterlin 
For nionie a pursieshe had hooked. 
And had in monie a well been ducket ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie I 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlaudmaa 

AIR. 

TUNE — " O an' ye were dead guidman. ' 

A t^i'i^ILAND lad my love was born, 
1'ne JjR'Sun' laws he held in scorn ; 
But ne still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlaadman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ; 
There's not a lad in all the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman,. 

With his phillbeg and tartan plaid. 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant, braw John Highlamlman. 

Sing, hey, (fe. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lallan face he feared naue. 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman 

Sing, hey, &«• 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, tfc. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hang'd my braw John HighlanflmOB 
Sing, hey, Sfc. 

And now a v/iJow, T must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, tfe. 

RECITATIVO 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs todriddle. 

Her strapphi limb and gaucy middle, 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

Andblawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e. 
He croon'd liis gamut ane, twa , three 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Then, fu an ArioKo key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' AUegreiio glee, 

His giga solo. 

AIR, 

TUNE—" Whistle o'er the lave o't 

LET me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
JVlay whiulle o'er the lave o't. 



lam afddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes tJiat e'er Iplay'd, 
The siceetest still to wife or maid, 
yVas whistle o'er the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'sebe there 

And Oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 

We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 

Siiigs whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, !,c. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at our leisure when we like. 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, S^c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kit:le hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
Alay whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, tfc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth. 

To spit him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face. 

And sae tne quarrel ended. 
Butlho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
Ele feign'd to snirtle in bis sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 

AIR. 
TUNE-" Clout the Cauldron." 

MY bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 



I've taen the gold, I've been enroll'd 

li! many a noble squadron ; 
Bui vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've taen the gold, tfc. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and carpin. 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

T he budget and the apron ; 
And by that stoup, my faith and hou 

And by that dear Kilbadgie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May 1 ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by that stoup, t(e. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd— th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wiMove o'ercome sae fair. 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunic, 
Wish 'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

^ To their health that nigbt. 

But hurchiii Cupid shat a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rakd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie. 

boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sai-r upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad. 

Nor want — but when be thirsted ; 
He halted nought but — to be sad. 

And thus tiie Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

TUNE—" For a' that, and a' that," 

I AM a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran pyke, 

Frae town to town I draw that 

CHORUS, 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as m^ikle's a* tfmt; 

I've had buz ane, I've twa behin', 
I 've wife enough, for a' that. 

* A peculiar sort of Whiskey, so called ; a great fa- 
vourite with Foosie Nansie's clubs. 



152 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I never drank (he Muses' tank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' tlial ; 
Bui there it streams, and richly reams, 

My lleUcoii I CO.' iJiat. 

For a' L\at, Ifc. 

Great love I bear to a' U>e fair. 
Their liumble slave, and a' Uiat ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw tliat. 

For a' that, {cc 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 
But for how lang the Hie may «tang, 

Let inclination law that. 

JPora' that, Sfc, 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex I" 
I like the jads for a' that. 

jPor a' that, and a' that. 
And ticice as meikle's a' that ; 

Mi! dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
They're welcome tiU't, for a' tliat. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouili ; 
They toom*^ their pocks, and pawn'd their duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench Iheir lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the Jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To lowsc his pack, and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' tlie best ; 
He, rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

Ain. 

TUNE—" Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.' 

SEB the smolring bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Round and round take up the chorus. 

And in raptures let us sing : 



• CllORUS. 

A Jig for those by law protected! 

Ltaerty's a glorious /east J 
Courts /or cotcards were erected. 

Churches built to please the prittt, 

AVhnt is title ? What is treasure? 

^V^hal ij reputation's care.' 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'T j no matter, how or where I 

Afis,!ft 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Round we wander all the day 
And at night, in barn or stable. 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 

AM, (fc. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A^g,if*. 

Life IS all a varionen. 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

AAg,!rt. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our raeed brats andcalletat 

One and all cry out. Amen I 

AM, i>t 



EXTEMl'ORE. 
April, 1782. 

WHY the deuce shotdd I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder? 

I'm livrnty-three, and five feet nine— 
I'll go and be a sodgor. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 
1 held it weel thegiiher ; 

Bui now it's gane and something inkir. 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



THE END. 



GL.OSSART. 



THEciund gA nave always the giKlnral sound. The soun'l of the English dipldhone oo, is commonly ineJl- 
eilou. The French u, a sounfl which often occurs in the Scottish language, is markea oo, t/i. J"he a 
in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diplithong, or followed by an e mule oiler a »ingle coiiBO- 
iianl, sounds gen?.ally like the Broad English a in wall. I'he Scottish diphthong a, always, and ea, irery 
ofien, sound like the French « masculine. The ScoUish diphthong ey, sounds like the Lalln «i. 



A. 



A\ All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigk, at a shy dibtance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Af, ofl'; Af loof, unpremeditated. 

AJore, before. 

A J I, oft. 

Aften, often. 

^»/ey, oft' the right line ; wrong. 

Aibllns, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-jienny Airles, earnest money 

Aim, iron. 

Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder, 

Alalce, alas, 

Alane, alone. 

Akwarl, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An^ , and : if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anillur , another. 

Ase, afhes. 

Atklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring. 

Athart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, in a' my aught, in all my 

possession. 
Auld langsyne, olden time, days of other years. 
Auld, olil. 
Auldfarran, or auld farrant, sagacious, cunning 

prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
AiJoa\ a"'ful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ayoni, beyond. 



B. 



BA\ Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning. 

Back, returning. 

Ba/l, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bairnlime, a family of children, a brood. 

Baith, both. 

Bin, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

Ban^, to b«at ; to strive. 



Bardie, f''minutive of bard. 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Baimie, of, or like barm. 
Batch., a crew, a gang. 
Balls, bole. 
Baudrons, a cat. 
£«uW, bold. 
Baw/c, bank. 

Baws'nl, luivinga while stripe down the fac«. 
Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease. 
Bear, barley. 

iJc'wfie, diiikiiintive of beast. 
Beet, to atUI fuel to fire. 
Bctd, bald. 
Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into liie apence or parlour ; a spence. 
Benlornond, a noted mountain in Dumbartonablre. 
Bethankit, grace after meat. 
Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a ihorl rata 
Bie, or bield, shelter. 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 
Biggit, built. 
Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow. 
Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 
Birk, birch. 

Birken-shau), Birkenwood-shaw, a small wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of palridges, &c.when they spring. 
Bit, crisis, nick of time. 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term of conterajt. 
Blaslil, blasted. 
Blate, bashful, sheepish. 
Blather, bla Ider. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap. 
Blaw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleeril, bleared sore with rheum. 
Bleert and blin\ bleared and blind. 
Bleezing, blazing. 
Blcllum, an idle talking fellow. 
Bleth'rin, talking ioly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiUng look ; to loook kind- 
ly ; to shine by fits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 

Blinkin, smirking. 

Blue-gown, one of those bepgars who get annually, 
on the king's binUday, a blue cloak or fp^a, 
with a bailge. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

iJ/i/pc, a shred, a large piece. 

Bock, to vomit, to guth intermittingly. 

Backed, gushed, vomited, 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgohlins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a irnall Jan. 
neck, or loaf made of oatmeal. 

Boord, a board. 

Boorlrec, the shrub elder ; planted much of old ia 
hedges of barn yards, &c, 

Booit, behoved, must neeib. 



G2 



IM 



(JKOSSARV 



fiore, aholc in llie wall. 
Hatch, nil angry Uimuur. 
Housing, (Iriiikiiij;. 
Boto-kail, cabbage. 
Hoiet, bended, crooked. 
Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a prccijuce ; the slope of a hill. 
Braid, broud. 
Braindg't, reeled forwnrd. 
Braik, a Uind of harrow. 
Braiiidge, to run rashly forward. 
Brak. broke, made insolvent. 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 
Brash, a sudden ilUiess. 
Brals, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Braw, AAe, handsome. 

xirawly, or bratelie, very well ; finely ; heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breastie, (timinuiive of breast. 
Breastil, did spruig up or forward. 
Brerkaii, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresistable spell. 
Breekt, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Bretcin, brewing. 
Brie, juice, liquid. 
Brig, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 
Brither, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 
Broo, broth ; liquid ; water. 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings, who 
shall first reach the bridegroom's house ou return- 
ing from church. 
Brotes'.er-tDioes, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 

Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst ; buist. 
Buchan-bullers , the boiling of the sea among the 

rocks on the coast of Uuchan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught,a. pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the sheep in the 

pens to be milked, 
Buirdly, stout-made ; broad-made. 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the sum- 
mer evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Buminle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 
Burdies, diminutive of birds. 
Bure, did bear. 
Bum, water ; a rivulet. 
Bumewin, i. e.burn thetpind, a blacksmith. 
Bumie, diminutive of burn. 
Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. 
Busks, dresses. 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 
Buss, shelter. 
But, hot, with ; without. 
But an' ben, the country kilcheu and parlour. 
By himscl, lunatic, distracted. 
Byke, a bet-hive. 
Bj/re, a cow-stable ; a sheep-peii. 



CA', To call, to name ; to drive. 

Ca't, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or caddie, a person ; a young fellow. 

Caf, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 

Caff'toard, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie. or catmie, gentle, mild ; dexterous. 



Cannilie, dexterouily ; gently. 

Cantie, or caniy, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cap-siane, coi>e-sione ; key-8tone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

CaW, an old mnu. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

CauUron, a caldron. 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking-vesse). 

Cestes, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blovr. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, checked. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel, a youtig fellow. 

Chiinla, or chimlie, a fue-giate, a fire-place. 

ChimUi-lug, the fireside. 

Chiltering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, choking. 

Chow, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by iide. 

Chutne, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a. small village about a church ; a hamtM. 

Claise, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Claithing, dothing. 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense. 

Clap, clapper of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 

datter, to tell idle stories ; an iilie story. 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Claut, to cl'jun ; to scrape. 

Clautecl, scraped. 

Ct".vers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Clced, to clothe. 

Cleeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

Clinki.1, lerking ; clinking. 

Clmkumoctl, he who rings the church-beH. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 

C/oc^, to hatch ; a oeetie. 

Clockin, hatchins:. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &e. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouds. 

Coaiin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing-bv^at. 

Cockemony, a lock of hair tied ufon a girl's head • 

a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, diminutive of cog. 
Coj/a, from Ky.'e, a district of Ayrshire ; so called, 

saiiti traditiou, from Coil, or Coilus, a I'iclish mon- 
arch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular uama 

for coucitry curs. 
Collieshatigie, quarrelling, au uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof, a. blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cool-it, apueared, and disappeared by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot. 
Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those foteW 

whose legs are clad with JealAers, are said lu be 

coolie, 
Corbits, a species of the crow. 
Core, corps; party; dun. 
ComU, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cottage. 
Couthie, kind, loving. 
Cove, a cave. 
Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop; a flight • 

a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Coiep, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang. 
Coicpit, tumbled. 
Ootorin, cowering. 



GLOSSARY. 



155. 



CiMt, a colt. 

Co9if, enuij. 

Cottty, iti.iply. 

CraiiW, crabbed, fretfC 

Crack, oonveraation ; to converse. 

Crackin. conversing. 

Crnfl, or crojl, a liclJ near a house (in old hus- 

baiJlry.) 
Craikg, cries orcalU incessantly ; £. bivfl. 
Craifibo-ciinlc, or cra?nbajuigie, i-tiyrnes, d».ggercl 

verHca. 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 
Crankous, fretful, captious. 
Cranreuch, tlie hoarfrost. 
Crap, a crojj ; to crop. 
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a roofe. 
Creel, a basliet ; to have one'n wits in a creel, to oe 

crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creejne-atool, the same as cutty-stool. 
Crees/iie, greany. 
Crood, or croud, to coo a'l a dove. 
Croon, a hollow and continued moan : to make a 

noise like the coatinued roar of a bull ; to hum a 

tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouckie, crook-backed. 
Crouse, cheerful ; courageous. 
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously, 
Crowdie, a compositioT of oat-meal and boiled wa- 
ter, sometimes from tlie broth of oeef, mutton, &c. 
Crowdie-lime , breakfast lime. 
Croflin, crawling. 

Crumnvjck, a cow with crooked horns. 
Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread. 
Crunt, a blow on the head wiih a cudgel. 
Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 
Cummock, a short slaft' with a crooked head. 
Curchie, a courtesy. 
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practised in 

Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlets. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring j a flight rumbling noiae. 
Curpin, the crupper. 
Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 
Cutty, short ; a spoLn broken in the middle. 
Cuttyttool the stool of roijeiilance. 



D 



DADniE, a father. 

Dojj'in, merriment ; foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Dairnen, rare, now and then ; daimenicker, an ear 

of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, t-greeaf: le. 
Daise, duez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys, 
Darklina, darkling. 
Draid, to thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurl, dared. 

D'Lurg, or daurk, a day's labour. 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
DatBlH,OK dawtet, fondled, caressed. 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
Dearth/ u', dear, 
Deave, tO deafer.. 

Deit-ma-care .' no matter! for all that I 
Deleerit, deliriouj. 
Descrive, to describe. 
Dight, to wipe ; toclean com from chaS*. 
Dight, cleaned from chaff. 
Dins, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, driia. 
Dinna, do .,ot. 

Dirl, a slieht tremulous stuke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz'r, a du-cn. 
Doited, stupified, hebetated 
Dolt, stu ifted , crazed. 
Donate, unlucky. 

Doa'., so TOW ; to sing dool, to lament, to mourn 
Uios, d)vea. 



73orty, saucy ; nice. 

/)ouce, or douse, sober, wlna, prudent. 

Dnucely, solieriy, pruilenily. 

Donght, Wiis or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-tkelper^ one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen andsadow. 

Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

Dowff, pithless, warning force, 

Dowie, worn with grief, faiigiie, he. half asleep. 

Dovma, am or are not able, cannot. 

Doylt, stupid. 

Djzcjt't, stupified, impotent. 

Drap, a drop ; to drop. 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, todraggle amo.ig wet, &c. 

Dropping, dropping. 

Drautiling, drawling ; of a slow enunciation, 

Drctp, to ooze, todrup. 

Dreiuh, tedi'^us, long about St. 

DribblK, drizzling ; slaver. 

Drijt. a drove. 

Drodilum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpVt, that drops at the crupper. 

Droukil, Wet. 

D^ounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought, 

Druncken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Di-ummock, meal an 1 water mixed in a raw state. 

Drunt, I et, sour humour. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Duds, rags, clothes. 

Duddic, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven, 

Dunled, beaten, boxed. 

Dusk, to push as a ram, &c. 

Dushl, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



F/E, the eye. 

E''en, the eyuR. 

E'enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, di eading Eplrit*. 

Eild, old age. 

Elhuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or chu.Mca officer. 

En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydent, diligent. 



2^^', fall; lot; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falla. 

Fn/idomU, fathomed, 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fairin, a fairicg ; a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, 4c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble to ztxe hm, 

Faskt, troubltd. 

Fasteren e'en, Fajiten's Even. 

Fnuld, a fold , to fold. 

Fan/ding, folding, 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field : smooth. 

Fearfu', frightful. 

Fear't, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fiaht. 

F&ehlin, fighting. 



156 



GLOSSARY. 



J-^eck. many, plenty. 

Pecket, an under wais' coat with Eleeres. 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stcui. 

Feckleas, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Fes, Si fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting ; the flesh immediately under the 
skin ; a field pretty level, on the side or lop of a 
hill. t- ^ . F 

Fen, successful stmegle ; fight. 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term of 
contempt. 

Fetch, U pull by fits. 

Fetch' t, puKed intermittently, 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, fien-I a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan', the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in 
the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fermentation. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner, 

Fleech'd, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesk, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random. 

Flecher, to oecoy by fair words. 

Fletherin, flattering. 

Fiey, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings when their 
darn approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 

Flinging-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of par- 
tition betA-een two horses in a stable ; a flail. 

Fligk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit, fretted. 

Fittter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds. 

Flittering, flutteriiig, vibrating. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forhye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; vorn out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. 

Forgie, to forgive. 

FoTjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Father, fodder. 

Fou, full ; drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, harassed. 

Fouih, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 

Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; ofl". 

Frammit, btrange, estranged from, at enmity with. 

Freath, froth. 

Frien', friend. 

Fu', full. 

Ftid, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 

Fuff. to blow intermittently. 

Fuff't, did blow. 

Funnie, foil of merriment. 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furm, a form, bench. 

Fyke, iniling cares ; to piddle, to U in a fuss about 
trifles. 

Fyle, to soil, to Jirty. 

FylH, soiled, dirtied. 



G. 



GAB, the mouth : to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gabfr-iunzie, an old man. 

Gwdsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the 
horses in the ploiigh. 

Cae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone ; gaun, 
going. 

Gael, or gate, way, manner , road. 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the bot- 
tom of a gowl), &c 



Gang, to go, to walk. 

Oar, to make, to force lo. 

Gar't, forced lo. 

Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to conTerM* 

Gashin, conversing. 

Gaucy, jolly, laige. 

Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in waulonuee.8 or scorn. 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 

Genty, elegantly formed, neat. 

Geordif, a guinea. 

Get, a child, a yo Jug one. 

Ghaist, a gliost. 

Gie, to give; gied,%a.ye; g-fen, given. 

Giftie, diminutive of gilt. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of gill. 

Gilpey, a half gro-vn, half informed boy or girl, 

romping lad, a hoiden. 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 
Gin, if ; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Girn, to grin, lo twist the features in rage, agony, 

&c. 
Giming, grinning. 
Gizz, a periwig. 
Glaikit, iiAttentive, 'bolish. 
Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, rnmping. 
Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 
Glaum, to snatch greedily. 
Giaum'd, aimed, snatched. 
Gleck, sharp, ready. 
Gleg, sharp, ready. 
Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gtey, off at a side, 

wrong. 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 
Glint, to peep. 
Glinted, peeped. 
Glintin, peeping. 
Gloamin, the twilight. 
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 
Glowred, looked, stared. 
Glunsh., a frown, a sour look. 
Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquiriiig 

gaze ; staring stupidly. 
Gowan, the flower ot the wild daisy, hawk-weed, &c. 
Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 
G'twa, gold. 
Goicff, the game of Golf; to strike as the bat does 

the ball at golf. 
GoicJ'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cookoo ; a term of cont,;mpt. 
Gowl, to howl. 

Grane^or grain, a groan ; to groan. 
Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted. 
Gra/njn?, groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning stables. 
Graith, accoutrements, furnilr.re, dress, gear. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grape, to grope. 
Grapit, groped. 
Grat, wept, shed tears. 
Great, intimate, familip.r. 
Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be decidedly 

victor. 
GreeH, agreed. 
Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 
Greetia, crying, weeping. 
Orippet, catched, seized. 
Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to play a 

losing game. 
Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 
Grozet- a gooseberry. 
Grump'h, a grnnt ; to grunt. 
Grumphie, a sow. 
Grun\ ground. 
Grunstane, a grindstone. 
Gruni/e, the phiz : a gruutinf noise. 
Grunzie, mouth. 
Qrushie, tiuck ; of thrivine growth. 



GLOSSARY. 



157 



Ow% the Saprems Being ; good. 

Ouid, good. 

Ouid-moming , good morrow. 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and mistress of 



Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, and mother- 
in-law. 
Oully, or gullie, a 'arge Itnife. 
Gumlie, muddy. 
Gusty, tasteful. 

H. 

HA\ hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the hall. 

Hae, to have. 

Haen, had, ihe participle. 

Haet,fient, hnet, a petty oath of negation ; nothing. 

Haffet, the temple, the tide of the head. 

Haffms, nearly half, partly. 

Hag, a acar, cr gulf, or gulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kmd of pudding boiled in the stomach of 

a cow or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Hain'd, spared. 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thooght. 
Hal', or hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healUty. 
Haiy, holy. 
Hame, home. 
Hallan, a particular par1ition-w«L in a cottage, or 

more properly a seat of turf at the outside. 
Hallowmas, Haf'ow-eve, the 31st of October. 
Hamely, homely, affable. 
Han', or hawi', hand. 
Hap, an outer ^ornieat, ssibatie, plaid, &c. to wrap, 

to cov r ; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping 

Hap step an' loup, h«p ikip and l«ap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Ham, very coarij linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dress nor 



Hawi, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; Talleya. 

Hnirl, to drag ; to peel. 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person ; half-witted. 

Having, good manners, decorum, good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face. 

Hejpit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Heir't, hear it. 

Pi'ather, heath. 

Hcch! oh! strange. 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that is to be 

got or given ; foretold ; the thing foretold ; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number of 

sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, &c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 
Helm, the rudder or helm. 
Herd, to tend flocks ; one who lends flocks. 
Herrin, a herring. 
Hernj, to plunder ; most properly to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any sort. 
Het, hot. 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit. 
Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 
Hiichin, halting. 
Himsel, himself. 
Hiney, honey. 
Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 
Hissel, so many cattle as one person can attend. 
Histie, dry ; chapped , barren. 
Hilch, a loop, a knot. 



Hizzie, s hussy, a young gir. 

Hoddin the motion of a sage countryman riding on 

a cart-horse ; humble. 
Hog-score, a kina of distance line, in curling, drawn 

across the rink, 
ffog-shoulher, a kind of horse play, by justling with 

the shoulder; to justle. 
Hool, oute' skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas-cod. 
Honlie, Slowly, leisiirely. 
Hooliel take' leisure, stop. 
Hoard, a hoard ; to hoard. 
Hoordit, horded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn. 
Horiiie, one of the many names of the deTil. 
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hosts, coughs. 

Hotch'd, turned topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 
Houghmagnndie , fornication. 
Houiet , an owl. 
Housie, diminutive of house. 
Hove, to heave, to swell. 
Hov'd, heaved, swelled. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 
Howehackit, sunk in the back, spokenof a hem, ftl 
Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resorti 
Howk, to dig. 
Howkil, digged. 
Howkin, digging. 
Howlet, an owl. 
Hoy, to urge. 
Hoy't, urged. 
Hoyse, to pull upwards. 
Hoyte, to arable crazily. 
Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 
Hj,rdies, the loins. 
Hushion, b. cushion. 



/',in. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or Ilha, each, every, 

III- Willie, ill-natured, malicioua, nigganfly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; lire-place. 

/se, I shall or will. 

Itkir, other ; one another. 



J. 



J AD, jade ; also a familiar term among country folk* 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
y«uA-jn, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated water. 
Jaw, a coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, to jerk 

as water. 
Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 
/iZ/eZ, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Ji77ip, to jump ; slender in the waist ; handsome. 
Jimps, easy stays. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; a sudden turning; 

a corner. 
Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay, sprightly girl ; a 

wag. 
Jinkin, dodging. 
Jirk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 
Jow, tojoxo, a verb which includes both the swin^ 

ing motion and pealing sound of a large bell. 
Judie, to justle. 



K. 



KAE, a daw. 

JCnil, colewort ; a kind of oroth. 

Knil-nml, the stem of colewort, 

Knin, fowls, &c paid as rent by a farmer. 



158 



GLOSSARY. 



Kebbuek, a cheese. 

Keckle to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, lo peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous Bpirits, said to hauut 

fords and lerries at night, especially in storms. 
Ken, to Jinow ; kend or kenn'd linew. 
Kennin, a small matter 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, mattfttl, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindred ; kin', kiml,<2d;. 
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox, 

&c. 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a sliop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread ; to serve 

for soup, gravy, &c. 
Kith, kindred. 

A'iH/e, to tickle ; ticklish; lively, apt. 
Kittlin, a young cat. 
Kiuttle, to cuddle. 
Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knoggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knap, to strike sharply, a smart blow. 
Knappin-haminer, a hammer for breaking stones. 
Knowe, a small round hillock. 
Knurl, a dwarf. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 
AV«i the belly. 
Kythe, lo discover ; to show one's self. 



LADDIE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and bottom of a 

wooden dish. 
Liigh, low. 

JLairing, wading, and sinking in snow, mud, &c. 
Laitk, loath. 

Laithfu, bashful, sheepish. 
Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English lan- 



Lan', land ; estate 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, ((c. myself alone, &c. 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think tang, to long, to weary. 

Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Liwin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Liwland, lowland. 

Lea'd, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Lensome, pleasant. 

Lseze-7ne, a phrase of congratulatory endearment; 

lam happy in thee, or piouil of thee. 
Leister, a three pronged dart lor striking fish. 
Leugh, did laugh. 
L-^k, a look ; to look. 
Ltbbet, gelded. 
Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at. 
Lilt, a ballad ; a t'ur.e ; lo sing. 
Limin r, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 
Limp't, limped, hobbled. 
Link, to trip along. 
l^inkin, tripping. 
Linn, a water-fall ; a precipice. 
Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, flax in flower. 
Lintvihite, a linnet. 
lA>an, or loanin, the place of milking. 
Loof, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did\et. 
Loovis. plural cf loof. 



Loun, a ftllow, a ragamuffin ; a woman o' ewy 

virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lotai, a flame. 
Loicin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lows'd, loosed. 
Lug, the ear ; a handle. 
Liigget, having a handle. 
Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handlo, 
Lum, the chimney. 

Litnch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke. 
Luntin, smoking. 
Lyart, or a mixed colour, gray. 



MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Milk, lo make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Mallie, Molly. 

A/fino', among, 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the ministei 

lives. 
Manteele, a mantle. 
Mark, marks, (This and several other nouns which 

in English require an s, to form the plural, art 

in Scotch, like the words sheep, deer, the earn* 

in both members.) 
A/aWed, variegated ; spotted. 
Mar's year, the year 1715. 
Marstilum, meslin, mixed corn. 
Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 
Maskin-pnt, a tea-pot. 

Mand, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c. 
Maukin, a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thiush. 
Maw. to mow. 
Mawin, mowing. 
Mecre, a mare. 
Meikle,7neickle,mTic\i. 
Mdancholioue, mournful. 
MJder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to the mil, 

to be ground. 
Mell, iu meddle. Also a mallet for pounding barlej 

in a stone trough. 
M Ivie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
MenseUss, ill bred, rude, impudent 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunghill 
Mim, prim, afi'ectedly meeK. 
Min', mind ; resemblance. 
Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending 
Minnie, mother, dam. 
Mirk, mirkst, dark, darkest. 
Misca' , lo abuse, to call names. 
Misca d, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 
Misteuk, mistook. 
Mither, a mother. 
Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed, 
Moistify, to moisten. 
Mony, or monie, many. 
Moots, dust, earth, the earth of the grave. Torake 

i' the moots ; to lay in the dust. 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 
Moorlan', of or b( longing to moors. 
Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moudiwort, a mole. 
Mo:jsi'-, diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 
M^'Sie, dimiuutive of muse. 



GLOSSARY. 



159 



Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 

shelled-barley, and greens. 
MutcMcin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 



N. 



AM, no, not, nor. 

Nae, no, not any. 

Naething, or naithing, nothing. 

Naig, a horse. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 

Negleckit, neglected. 

Neiik, a nook. 

Niest, next. 

Nieve, ihe fist. 

Nitvefu', handful. 

Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to barter. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-tail' d cat, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north. 

Notic't, noticed. 

NotBte, black cattle. 



O. 



O', of. 

Ockils, name of mountains. 
O liaith, O faitli ! an oath. 
Ony, or onie, any. 
Or, is often used for ere, before. 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be spared. 
O't, of it. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, or oursels, ourselves. 
Oatlers, cattle not housed. 
Ower, over ; loo. 

Ower-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the ham- 
mer over the arm. 



P. 



PACK, intimate, familiar ; twelve stone of wool. 

Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a patridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Pari,:, speech. 

Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known Scotch 
dish. 

Pat, did put ; a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff. 

Paughty, proud, haughty. 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 

Pay't, paid ; beat. 

Pcch, to fetch the breath short, as in an asthma. 

Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 

Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pt«/Ze, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 

Philibegs, short petticoats worn by the Highland- 
men. 

Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 

Phraisin, flattery. 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to the bag- 
pipe. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pine, pain, uneasiness. 

Pit, to put. 

Placard, a public proclamation. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a Scotch 
penny, twelve of which make an English peiniy. 

Plackless, pennyless, without money. 

Plntie, diminutive of plate. 

Plew, or pleiigh, a plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Poind, lo seize cattle or goods for rent, as the laws 
of Scotland allow. 

Poorti h, poverty. 

Pou, to pull. 

Pouit, to pluck. 



Poussit a nare, or cat. 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 

Pou't,dx<X pull. 

Powthery, like powder. 

Pow, the head, the suuU. 

Pownie, a little hoise. 

Powther, or poathtT, powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prenl, to print ; print. 

Prie, to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute. 

Priggin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demuref-precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to propose. 

Provoses, provosts. 

Puddock-stool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Pund, pound ; pounds. 

Pyle—a. pyle o' cluiff, a single grain of chaff. 

a. 

QUAT, to quit. 
Qnak, to quake. 
Qfiey, a cow from one to two years old. 



R. 

RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 

Raihle, to rattle nonsense, 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden to inflame. 

Ram-feezVd, fatigued; overspread 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, (properly) a coarse cloth ; but rued a» at» 

adnounfor coarse. 
Rarely, excellently, very well. 
Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 
Ration, a rat, 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless, 
Raught, reached. 
Raw, a row. 
Rax, to stretch. 
Ream, cream ; to cream. 
Reaming, brimful, frothing. 
Rtave, rove. 
Reck, to heed. 
Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Rtd-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe-topa. 
Rtd-wud, stark mad. 
Bee, half-drunk, fuddled. 
Reek, smoke. 
Reekin, smoking. 
Reekit, smoked ; Braoky, 
Rem'od, remedy, 

Requite, requited. " 

Rist, to stand restive. 
Rstil, stood restive ; stunted ; withered. 
Reslricked, restricted. 
Eew, to repent, to compassionate, 
Rief, reef, plenty. 
Bif randies, sturdy beggars. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that crosses 

the saddle of a horse to support the spokos cf a 

cart ; spare, withered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones; a term in eurlin; 

on ice. 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots, 
Rockin, spinning on the rock or distaff. 
Rood stands likewise for the plural roods. 
Roon a shred, a border or selvage 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roosly, rusty. 

Roun\ round, in the circle of neighbourhood. 
Rouptt, hoarse, as with a cold. 
Roulhie, plentiful. 
Row, to roll, to wrap. 
How't, rolled, wrapped. 
Rowte, to low, to bellow. 
Rowth, or roiith, plenty, 
Rowtin, lowing. 



160 



GLOSSARY. 



Rozct, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Hunkled, wriiikleJ. 

Hunt, the slein of colewortor cabbage 

Ruth, a waitiaa's name ; the book so called ; sor- 

Ryiy, 10 reach. 



R. 



SAE, 80. 

Saft, 

i>atT, to serve ; a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sau:'t, served. 

Sar/c, a shirt ; a shift. 

iiai-i-it, provided in shirts. 

Sou^/i, the willow. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

li'auni, a saint. 

(Sau/, salt, adj. salt. 

Sew, to sow. 

Sawin, sowing. 

Sax, six. 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 

Scar, a clifl". 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared. 

Scawl, a scold ; a tenoigant. 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Scanner, a loathing ; to loathe. 

Scratch, to scream as a hen, partridge, Src. 

Screed, to tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 

<Scrjei>in, gleesomely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpit, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self; a body's set, one's self alone. 

SeU't, did sell. 

Sen', to send. 

Sen't, I, ic. sent, or did send it ; send it. 

Servan', servant. 

Setllii), settling ; to get a settlin, to be frighted into 
quietness. 

Sets, sets off; goes away. 

Shackled, distorted ; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting the tail 
of a dog, &c. into, by way of niischief, or to fright- 
en him away. 

Shaver, a humourous wag ; a barber. 

Skate, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Skeen, bright, shining. 

Skeep-shank ; to think one's self nae sheep-shank, 
to be conceited. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the famous battle fought 
in the rebellion, A. D. 1715. 

Skeugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed, 

Skill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side. 

Skool, a shovel. 

Skoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shor'd, offered. 

Skouther, the shoulder, 

Sh'jre, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelitis, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver ; money. 

Simmtr, summer. 

Sin, a son. 



Skellum, a worthless fellow 

Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart 

tripping step ; a smart stroke. 
Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female 

«cuiaing. 



Sielpin, stepping, walking. 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, high-mettled. 

Skinklin, a small portion. 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirli ng, shrieking, crying. 

Skirl't, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant ; to run, aslant, to deviate from 

truth. 
Sklented, rat>, or hit, in an oblique direction. 
Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 

range, scope. 
Skrieek, a scream ; to scream. 
Skyrin, shining ; making a great show. 
Skyte, force, very forcible motion. 
Slae, a sloe. 
Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 
Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 
Slaw, slow. 

Slee, e]y ; sleest sliest. 
Sleekit, sleek; sly. 
Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet fuiiow from the plough 
Slypet,{e\\. 
/S'wia', small. 

Smi.ddum, dust, powder ; mettle, reuse. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 
Smoor, to smoUier. 
Smoor'd, smothered. 
Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 
Smytrie, a numerous collection of small individuals 
Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 
Snnsk, abuse. Billingsgate. 
Snaio, snow ; to snow. 
Snnw-broo, melted snow. 
Snaicie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latrh of a door. 
Sncd, to lop, to cut off. 
Snecshin, snuff. 
Srceeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
Snell, bitter, biting. 
Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty. 
Snirtle, to laugh resliainedly. 
S'lood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppressir* 

slavery ; to submit tamely, to sneak. 
Snooce, to go smoothly and constantly, to sneak. 
Snoick, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 

So'isii; having sweet engaging looks; lucky, joUy. 
iSoom, to swim. 
So-^lk, truth, a petty oath. 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the ear. 
SoupU, flexible ; swift. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds of oat« 

meal soured, &c. flumery. 
Sotrp, a spoonful, a small quantity of any thing li- 
quid. 
Sowlh, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 
Souther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, a limb. 

Sp'irge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
Spavi t, having the spavin. 
Spean.spnne, to wean. 
Speat or spate, a sweeping terrent, after rain or 

thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, inquire. 
Spier't, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 
Spleugkuti, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 
Sprackle, sprackle, to clamber. 
^prattle, to scramble. 
Speckled, spotted, speckled. 
i:ipring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel. 
Sprit, a tough rooted plant, something Uke ru?hea. 
Sprittie, full of spirit. 
^^M^li-, fire, mettle ; wit. 
&pun!:ie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'-wisp, or tgnit 

Jatuus. 
Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal pudding or 

porridge. 



GLOSSARY. 



161 



Si}uad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, lo flutter in water, as a wild duck, &c. 

Squattle, to s'l-iawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to Ecream. 

Stacker, to stagger. 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 

Stalwart, strong, stout. 

Slant, lo stand ; stan't, did stand. 

Slane, a stone. 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sling. 

Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water. 

Stap, Slop. 

Slnrk, stout. 

Startle, lo run as cattle stung by the gad-fly. 

^^taumrel, a blockliead ; half-witted. 

Staw, did steal ; lo surfeit. 

Stech, to cram the belly. 

SlecJiin, crammii>.g. 

Steek, lo shut ; a stitch. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

SteU,aRU]\. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 

Sten't, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Stcy, steep ; steyesl, steepest. 

Stibble, stubble; stibblerig, the reaper in harvest 
w-ho takes the lead. 

Slick an' stow, totally, altogether. 

Stile, a crutch ; lo ha'lt, to limp. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullocks year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of cole wort, cabbage, &c. 

Stockin, a stocking ; throwins the stocking, when 
the bride and bridegroom are put into bed, and 
the candle out, the former Lhiows a stocking at 
random among the company, and the person 
whom it strikes is the next that will be married. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 

Slooked, made up in shocks as com. . 

Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 
handie, 

Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion. 

Scowlins, by stealth. 

Stoion, stolen. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Stran, straw : to die a fair slrae death., to die in 
bed. 

Straik, did strike. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strappnn, tall and handsome. 

Straught, straight, to straighten. 

Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch, 

Striddle, lo straddle. 

Stroan, to spout, lo piss. 

Studdie, an anvil. 

Stumpie, diminutive of stump. 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to wallc stur- 
dily ; huff, suUenness. 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 

Sturt, trouble ; to molest. 

Stiertin, frightened. 

Sucker, sugar. 

Sud, should. 

Sugfi, Die continued rushing noise of wind or water. 

i^'uthron, southern ; an old name for the English 
nation. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swaird, swelled. 

Swank, stately, jolly, 

Swankie, or sivanker, a tight strapping young fel- 
low or girl. 

Stoap, an exchange ; to barter. 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 

Swat, did sweat. 

Stealch, a sample. 

Swats, drink ; good ale. 

Sweaten, sweating. 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; dendswecr, extremely averse. 

Swoor, swore, did swear. 

Stcinge, ;o beat ; lo whip. 



Sirir/. a curve ; an eddying blast, or pool ; a knot 

in wood. 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 
Svnih, get away. 
Swiiker, to hesitate in choice ; an irresolute waver. 

ingiii choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 



T. 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into the 

heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe ; three-taed, having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
lak, lo take ; takin, taking. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapethss, heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 
Tarrow't, murmured. 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or laid, told. 

Taupie, a fooli'h, thoughtless young person. 
Tauled,or Ja«/ie, matted together ; spoken of hair 

or wool. 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be handled ; 

spoken of a linrse, cow, &c. 
Teal, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Ttdding, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed for the horse? while in 

the yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a field pulpit ; heed, caution ; to take heed ; 

to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentie, heedful, caution. 
Tentless, heedless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing neces- 

saries. 
Thae, these. 

Thairme, small guts ; fiddle-strings. 
Thankit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatched. 
Th'githtr, together. 
Thmsd, themselves. 
Thick, intiniate, familiar, 
Thiirueltss, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of a person's 

demeanour. 
TJiir, these. 
Thirl, to thrill. 
Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 
Tholfi, to sutler, to eiMuu-e. 
Tliowe, a thaw ; to thaw, 
Thowless, slack, la^.. 
Thrnng, throng ; a crowd. 
Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 
Thrave, twenty- four sheaves or two shocks of com ; 

a considerable number. 
Tkraw, to sprain, to twist; to contradict. 
Thrawin, twisting, &c. 
Tlirawn, sprained, twisted, contradicted. 
Thrtap, to maintain by dint of assertion. 
Threshin, thrashuig. 
Threl(^en, thirteen. 
Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 
Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly. 
Thud, to make a loud ijitermitlent noise. 
Thumpit, thumped. 
Thysel, thyself. 
Till't, to it. 
Timmer, timber. 
Tin£, lo lose ; tint, lost. 
Tinel^, a tinker. 
Tint the gate, lost the way. 
Tip, a ram. 
Tippence, twopence. 
Tirl, lo make a slight noise ; to uncover. 
Tirli'i, uncoverin- 
Tilher, the other. 
Tittle, to whisper. 
Tittlin, whispering. 
Toc/icr, marriage porliotu 



162 



GLOSSARY. 



Tod, ft fox. 

Toddle, to loiter, like tbe walk of a child. 

Toddlin, tottering. 

T'jom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-houae. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet, to blow a horn, 
&c. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Towzie, rough, shasLgy. 

Toy, a very oldtfashion of female head-dress. 

Toyte, to loiter like old age. 

Transmigrify'd, traiismigrated, metamorphosed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Trews, trowsers. 

Trickle, full of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, heat. 

Trimly, ey.celleiitly. 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowtk, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointeu ; to tryste, to make an appoint- 
ment. 

Tiy't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough-traces 
were frequently made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Trsa-three, a few. 

'Twad, it would. 

Twal, twelve ; Iwal-psnnie worth, a small quantity, 

a penny-worth. 
N. B. One penny English is IQd Scotch. 

Twin, to part. 

Tyke, a dog. 



U. 



UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very, very great, pro- 
digious. 
Uncos, news. 
r/n/,-enn'd, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith^d, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting, unwittingly, unknowingly. 
Vpo', upon. 
Urchin, a hedge-hog. 



VAP'PTN, vapouring. 
Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a colum.n, &c. 
Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

W^',wall; wa's, walls. 

Wnbster, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna, would not. 

Woe, wo ; sorrowful. 

Waefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Waesucks J or waes-ine! alas! O the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shuttle 

through the web ; woof. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice ; to choose. 
Wal'd, chose, chosen . 
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an interjection of 

distress. 
Wame, the bellv. 
Wamefu\ a.he]\y-M\. 
Wanchancie, unlucky. 
Wanrestfti' , rtstless. 
Wark, wrork. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with. 
Warl, or world, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth. 
Warran,a warrant ; to warrant. 
Worst, worst. 



Warstl'd, or warsVd, wrestled. 

Waxtrie, prodigahty. 

Wat, wet ; Iwat, I wot, I know. 

Water-brose, brose made of meal and w»ter 
simply, without the addition of milk, butter, &c. 

Wattie, a twig a wand. 

Wauble, to swing, to reel, 

Waugkt, a draught. 

'Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 

Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 

Waur, worse ; to worst. 

Waur'l, worsted. 

Wean, or weanie, a child. 

Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, many a 
different person. 

Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the stocking. See, Stocking, p. 177. 

Wee, little ; wte things, little ones ; wee bit, a small 
matter. 

Weel, well ; weelfare, welfare. 

Werf, rain, wetness. 
Wnrd, fate. 

We'i-e, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to whee7e. 

Whnlpil, whelped. 

W/uing, a leather string ; a piece of cheese, bread, 

&c. to give the strappado. 
Whdre, where ; whare'er, wherever. 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk ; penny-wheep, imall 

beer. 
Whose, whose. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
Whid, the motion of a hare, running but not 

frightened ; a lie. 
W/iidden, running as a hare or cony. 
Whigmeleeries , whims, fancies, crotchets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigw7is, useless ornaments, trifling appen- 
dages. 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 
Whisht, snence ; to hold one^s whisht, to be ulent. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty drauffht of liquor. 
Whun-stane, a whin stone. 
Whyles, whiles, somttiraes. 
Tri',with. 
Wicht, wight, powerful, strong ; inventive ; of a 

superior genius. 
Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direction ; a 

term in curling. 
Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wifte, a diminutive or endearing term for wife. 
Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding society 
or appearing awkward in it ; wild, strange, timid. 
Wimple, to meander. 
Wimpl't, meandered. 
Wimplin, waving, meandering. 
Win, to win, to winnow. 
Win't, winded, as a bottom of yam. 
Win' , wind ; wi'i^s, winds. 
Winna, will not. 
Wimiock, a window. 
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 
Wiritle, a staggering motion ; to stagger, to reel. 
Winze, an oath. 
Wiss, to wish. 
Withoutten, without. 
Wizen'd, hide bound, dried, shrunk. 
Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appellation. 
Wons, dwells. 
Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 
Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of withce 

or willows. 
Wooer-bob, the garter knotted below the knee with 

a couple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 
M^rack, to teaze, to vex. 

Wrnith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition exactly 
like a living person, whose appearance is 8nid to 
forbode the person's approaching dtath. 



GLOSSARY. 



163 • 



Wrang, 



mg, wrong ; to wrong. 
Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 
Wed-mad, distracted. 
Wumbie, a wimble. 
[Vyle, to beguile. 
Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 
Wyte, blame ; to blame. 



YAD, an old raare ; a woru out horse. 
Yb ; this pronnun is frequently used for t 
Yearns, longs much. 
ieo7-{j«g», bom the same Tear co-evai». 



Year is used both for singular and plural years. 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Varlr to lash, to jerk. 

Yerki', "erked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate such as is usually at the entrance into 

farm-yarj or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Ybt j/i, yoking; a bout. 
Y'ont, beyond. 
Yoursel, yourself 
Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutire, of TOV* 
YuU.Ct-Ai 



CONTENTS, 



BiUGRAPHrCAIi SKETCH of the Author, 111 
On the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe, - VII 

Preface to the first Edition of Burns' Poems, 

published at Kilmarnock, - - - IX 

Dedication of Ifie Second Edition of the Poems 
formerly printed, To the Noblemen and Gen- 
tlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, - - X 



POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale, - - - 11 

Scotcli Drink, 13 

Tlie Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the 

Scotch Representatives in the House oi Com- 
mons, 14 

Postscript, 16 

'J'lie HolvFair, - ... 16 

Death and Dr Hornbook, .... jg 
The Brigs of Ayr, a i^oem inscribed to J. 

B***«"***,Ei4. Ayr, . - 20 

The Ordination, - • . - - 23 

The Calf. To the Rev. Mr. - - 24 

Address to the Deil, - - - - ib. 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, 26 

Poor Malie's Elegy,- - - - - ib. 

ToJ. S"-S 27 

A Dream, 28 

The Vision, ----- 30 
Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 

Righteous, ----- 33 

Tam Sampson's Elegy, - - - - ib. 

The Epitaph, 34 

Halloween, ----- ib. 
Tlie Auld Farmer's New-Year's Morning Sal- 

ntalion to liia Auld Mare Maggie, - - 33 
To a Mouse, on turning up in her nest witli 

the Plough, November, 1785, - 39 

A Winter Night, - - - - ib. 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, - . 40 
The Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate 

issue of a Friend's Amour, - - - 42 

Despondency, an Ode, - - - 43 

Winter, a Dirge, .... 44 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, - . ib. 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, - . 46 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death, - . 47 

Stanzas on the same occasion, - . ib. 
Verses left by the Author, in the room where lie 

slept, having lain at the House of a Rever. 

end Friend, - - - - 48 

The First Psalm, - - - - ib. 
A Prayer, under the pressure of violent An- 

guish, ----- ib. 

The first six verses of the Nineteenth Psalm, ib. 
To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one dowu 

withthePlough, in April, 1786, - 49 

To Ruin, .... ib. 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems as a 

New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787, . . ib, 

Epistle to a Young Friend, ... 50 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies, - 51 

To a Haggis, - - - - - ib. 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 52 
To a Louse, on seeing one ou a Lady's Boimet 

at Church, . - ■ - - 53 

Address to Edinburgh, . . ib. 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard, 54 

To the same, - - - - 55 

To W. S*«"*n, Ochiltree, May, 1785, . 56 

Postscript, ----- 57 

Epistle to J. R******, euclosingsomePoems, 58 



John Barleycorn, a Ballad, 
Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, 

Side, 
Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs. - 



Page. 



of 



Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, 

Tlie Epitaph, . - ... 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, 

Lament for James, Earl of Gleiicairn, 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, of White- 

foord, Bart, with tlie foregoing Poem, 
TamO' Shanter, a Tale, 
On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which 

a fellow had just shot at, . . . 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crown. 

ing his bust at Ednara, Roxburghshire, with 

Bays, ..... 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, 
On a Noisv Polemic, ... 

On Wee Johuie, .... 

For the Author's Father, 

E'er R. A. Esq. . . . . 

ForG.H. Esq. . .] . . 

A Bard's Epitaph . . 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland, collecting the Antiquities 

of thai Kingdom, . . . . 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young Lady. 

Written on the blank leaf of a Book, pre. 

sented to her by the Author, 
On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John 

M'Leod, Esq. Brother to a young Lady, a 

particular Friend of the Author's, - 
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the 

Noble Duke of Athloe, 
On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit, 
Written with a Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 

in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Tay- 

mouth, ..... 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall 0/ 

Fyers, near Loch-Ness, . . . 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, Born in 

peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress, 
The Whistle, a Ballad, 

Second Epistle to Davie, ... 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer, 
On the Death of a l.ap-Dog, named Echo, 
Inscription to the Memory of B''ergu8son, • 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. ... 
Fragment, inscribed to the Right Honourable 

C.J. Fox, . . . . 

To Dr. Blacklock, .... 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre EUisland, on 

New-Year's-Day Evening, 
Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, 
The Riglits of Woman, ... 

Address, spoken bv Miss Fontenelle, on her 

Benefit Night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, 

Dumfries, ..... 
Verses to a young Lady, with a present of 

Songs, ..... 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy of his 

Poems presented to a young Lady, . 
Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. William 

Tytler, ..... 

Caledonia, ..... 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had sent 

him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it 

free of expense, .... 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, ... 

Sketch — New Year's Day, ... 
Extempore, on the late Mr. William Smellie, 



ib. 
lib. 
ib. 
72 



166 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

115 

ib. 
116 
ib. 

ib. 
117 



Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- 

Sonnet', on the Dealli of Robert Riddel, Esq. 
Monody on a Lady famed tor her caprice, 
The Epitaph, .... 

Answer to a mandate sent by the Surveyor of 
the Windows, Carriages, &c. 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day, 

To a young Lady, Miss Jessy , Dumfries ; 

with Books which the Bard presented her, 
Sonnet, written on the 2oih of January, 1793, 
the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a 
Thrush sing in a mornii.g wait. 
Extempore, to Mr. S'*e, on refusing to dine 
with him, . . - - - 

To Mr. S"e, with a present of a dozen of por- 
ter, ------ 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, collector of 
Excise, Dumfries, 1796, . . - 

Sent to a gentleman whom he had offended. 
Poem on Life, addressed to Col. De Peyster, 
Dumfries, . . - - - 

Address to the Tooth-ach, . . - 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Finlry, on receiv- 

ing a favour, .... iai 

Epitaph on a Friend, - - - - 121 

A Grace before Dinner, - - - lb. 

On Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs. Dunlop, 
ofDunlop, - - - - ib. 

A Verse. \Mien Death's dark stream I ferry 

o'er. . . - • - ib. 

Verses written at Selkirk, ... \22 
Liberty, a Fragment, . . • 123 

Elegv on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, - ib. 

The loyal Natives' Verses, - - - iu. 

Burns — Extempore, - - - - ib. 

To J. Lapraik, 124 

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing a copy 
of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had re- 
quested, . . . - - ib. 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchliud, recom- 
mending a Boy, . . - • 125 
ToMr. M'Adam, ofCraigen-Gillan, - 126 
To Capt. Riddel, Glenriddcl, - - iD. 
To Terraughty, on his Binh-day, - - ib. 
To a Lady, with a present uf a pair of driuk- 

ing-glasses, - - - - ib. 

The Vowels, a Tale, - - - - 127 

Sketch, . - - - - ib. 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit, ib. 
ExtetnporaTieous Effusion on being appointed 

to the Excise, - - - - 128 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G. - ib. 

On the same, ... ib. 

On the same, . - - - ib. 

To the same on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment, - - ib. 

The Dean of Faculty, - - - ib. 

Extempore in the Court of Session, - - ib. 

Verses to J. Ranken, - - - ib. 

On hearing that there was falsehood in the Rev. 

, Pr. B 's very looks, - - - 189 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire, ib. 
Elegy on the year 17S8, a Sketch, - - ib. 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fergus- 

son, the Poet. - - - ib. 

The Guidwife of Wauchope house to Robert Burns, 13S 
The Answer, - - ' - - 139 

The Kirk's Alarm, A Satire, - - - 144 

The twa Herds, - - - - 145 

Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Burns, - 146 

The Answer, - - - - - ib. 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the 

publication of his Essays ... 147 

Letter to J— s T 1 Gi nc r, - ib. 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair - 148 
TheJolly Beggars, a Cantata. - . 149 

SONGS. 

A, 

Adien ! a heart-warm, fond adieu! - - 64 

A(iown winding Niih I did wander, - - SO 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever, - - 1S3 



Again rejoicing nature sees, • 

A Highland lad my love was born, 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 

Araang the trees where humming bees. 

An 0, for ane and twenty. Tain ! 

Alice mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December I 

Anna, thy charms my bosom file, 

A rose-bud by my early walk, - 

As I cam in by our gate-end, . . . 

As 1 stood by yon roofless tower. 

As 1 was a-wandefing ae morning in spring, 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, . - 

Behold the hojr, the boat arrive. 

Beyond ihee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe liae 1 been on yon hill, - 

Bonnie lassie will ye go, 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

By Allan slr-'am 1 chanced to rove, 

Hy you castle wa', at the close of the day, 



C. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, • 
Canet thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
Come, let me take thee to my breast, - 
Comin thro' the rye, poor body. 
Contented wi' little, and canlie wi' mair, 
Could aughi of song declare my paius, 



Deluded swain, the pleasure, - 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 
Duucau Gray came here to woo, 

P. 

Fair the face of orient day. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks. 

Farewell, tliou fair day, thou green earth, and 

yeski^s, .... 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, 
Farewell, ye dungeons dai k and strong, 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
First when Maggie was my care. 
Flow gently, sweet Afion, among thy green 

braes, .... 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
From thee, Eliza, I must go, - 



Page. 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. - 
Green grows the rashes O 1 



N. 



Had T a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here's a bottle and an honest friend. 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, . 
Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, - 
How can my poor heart be glad. 
How cruel are the parents. 
How long and dreary is the night. 
How pleasautthe baaks of the clear winding 
Devon, . . - , . 

Husband, husband, ceafce your strife. 



104 
140 
112 
138 
102 



94 

97 
105 

91 
123 

97 
141 



CONTENTS. 



1^7 



1 were springing, 



I am a bard of no regard,' 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 

lama son pf Mars, 

I do confess thou art so fair 

I dreara'd I lay where flow 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreeu 

1 hae a wife o' my ain, ... 

I '11 ay ca' in by yoii town, 

I'll liiss thee yet, yet, ... 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, - 

I once was a maid tho' I cannot tell whi 

Js there for honest poverty, 

It was upon a I.ammas night, 

It was tlie charming month of May, 



J. 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
John Anderson my jo, John, 



ten ye ought o' Captain Grose ? - - 

L. 

[,a.»sie wi' the lint-white locks. 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, ..... 

Let rne rilce up to delight that tear, 
l^et not woman e'er complain, 
Long, long the night, . - - 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
Louis, what reck I by thee, ... 



M. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
Musing on the roaring ocean, - . . 
My bonny lass, I work in brass. 
My Cliloris, mark how green the groves. 
My father was a farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der O, 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, - 
My heart's in the Highland's, my heart is not 
here, ..... 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 
My lady's gown there's gairs upon't. 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 



Nae Gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, - 
Now bank and brae are claith'd in green. 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays. 
Now nature hangs her mantle ereen. 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
Now spring has cloth'd the groves in green, 
Now wesliu winds and slaughtering guns. 



O ay my wife she dang me, 

O bonnie was yen rosy brier, 

O cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Of a' tlie airts the wind can blaw, 

O gin my love were yon red rose, 

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 

O how can I be blithe and glad. 

Oh, open the door, some pily to show, 

Oil, wert thou in the cnuld hlast, 

O ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 

O lassie, art thou sleepin yet ? 

O leave novelSj ye Mauchliiie belles, . 



I) leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O Logan, sweetly didst thou ghde, 
O lovely Polly Stewart, 
O luve will venture in, where it daur 

be seen, ... 

O Mary, at thy window be, 
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae-sweet 
O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 
O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, 
my hive's like a red, red rose. 
On a bank of flowers, one summer's day. 
On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
One night as I did wander, 
0, once I lov'd a bonny lass, 
O Philly, happy be the day, 
O poortith cauld, and restless love 
O raging fortune's withering blast, 
O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O st:iy, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
tell na me o' wind and rain, 
O, this is n.) my ain lassie, 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. 
Out over the Forth 1 look to' the north 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 
0, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
O wha isshe thai lo'es me, 
O wha my baoie-clouts will buy ? 
O Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 
0, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar, 
O why the deuce should I repine, 



Powers celestial, whose protection, 



Raving winds around her blowing, 
Robin shure in hairst. 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, - 

Scots wha ha wi' Wallace bled, 

See the smoking bowl before us, 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart. 

She is a winsome wee thing 

Should anld acquaintance be forgot, 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sleep's! thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires. 

Stay my charmer, can you leave me? 

Streams that glide in orient plains, . - 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, - 



T. 



The bairns gat outwi' an unco shout, 
The Gatrine woods were yellow seen. 
The day returns, my bosom burns, 
The deil cam fiddling tho' the town, - 
The gloomy night is gatli'ring fast. 
The heather was blooming, the meadows were 
mawn, ....«.] 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow ofthehiU, 
The lovely lass o' Inverness, . 
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, .... 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, - 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes 
at last, ...... 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, .... 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen. 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity, 



Page. 
103 



86 
112 
107 

86 
112 
142 

ia5 

137 
79 
97 

'86 
138 
S4 
S5 
99 
99 
100 
104 

113 
105 
119 
131 
90 
106 
140 



94 
121 

92 
132 
110 

84 

92 
ISO 

95 
142 
103 



141 

106 
105 
138 
63 



168 



CONTENTS. 



There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
There was a boiinie lass, and a bonnie, bonuie 

lass, ....-- 

There was alad was born at Kyle, 
Tliere was a lass and she was lair, 
There were five carlins in tne South, 
Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! - 
Thine am l,my faithful fair, 
Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray - 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 
True heatreJ was he, the sad swain of Yarrow 
Turn Hgain, thou fair Khza, 
Twas even, the dewy fields were green, 
Twas aa her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, 



U. 



Page. 



Dp io the momiiig's no for me, 
W. 



Wae isinyheartand the tear's in my e'e, 
Wee Wilfie Gray, and his leathen wallet ; 
Wha is thii at my bower door ? • - 



Pat«. 

Whit can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie, 107 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, - - 137 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, • • 60 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, . . 84 

When January winds were blawing cauld, - 143 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, - 87 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 92 

Wliere braving angry winter's storms, - 104 

Where Cartriiis rowin to the sea, - • 111 

While larks, with little wing, ... 89 

Why, why tell thy lover, .... 102 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary. - - 84 

Willie Wastledwali on Tweed, - . . 109 

Wilt thou be my dearie? - - - - 93 



y. 



Ye banks and braes, and streams around, 85 

ye banks and braes o' bonuie Doon, - • 109 

Ve flowery hanks o' bonnie Doon, • • ib. 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, - • 130 

Yeslreen I hada pint o' wine, ... 135 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, - 139 

Yon wild mossy mountains, ... J32 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad, - . 134 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, . 136 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. - ViA 



THE LIFE 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

WITH 

HIS GENERAL. CORRESPONDENCE 5 

ALSO 

CRITICISM OJV HIS URITUYGS 

AND 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

BY DR. CURRir. 



DR. CUHRIE'S BEDICATXON. 



TO 



SAISAIH ©^AMAim M®®m®» 

OF THE KOYAL NAVY. 



WHEN you were stationed on our coast about' 
twelve years ago, yuu first recommendetl to my par- 
ticular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, 
whose works, published for the benefit of his widow 
and children, I now jiresent to you. In a distant re- 
gion of llie world, whither the service of your country 
has carried you, you will, I know, receive with kind- 
ness this proof of my regard ; not perhaps without 
some surprise on finding tliat I have been engaged in 
editing these volumes, nor without some curiosity to 
know how I was qualified for such an undertaking. 
These points 1 will brielly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to the county 
of Dumfries, in the summer of 1762, I had there an op- 
portunity of seeing and conversing with Burns. It has 
been my fortune to know some men of high reputation 
in literature, as well as in public life; but never to 
meet any one who, in the course of a single interview, 
communicated tome so strong an impression of the 
force and versatility of his talents. After this I read 
the t^-«iEU then published with greater interest and at- 
teniton, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary 
as they are, they atford but »n inadequate proof of the 
powers of their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards. Burns terminated his career. 
Among thuse whom the charms of his genius had at- 
tached to him, was one with v,rhom I haVe been bound 
in the ties of friendship from early life — Mr. John 
Syme of Ryedale. This gentleman, after the death of 
Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a subscription 
for the support of the widow and children, to which 
their relief from immediate distress is to be ascribed ; 
and in conjunction with other friends of this virtuous 
and destitute family projected the publications of these 
volumes for their benefit, by which the return of want 
might be prevented or prolonged. 

To this last ttndertaking an editorand biographer 
was wanting, and Mr. Syme's modesty opposed a bar- 
rier to his assumi'igan office, for which he was in other 
respects peculiarly qualified. On this subject he con- 
sulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting his ob- 
jections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. En- 
deavours were used to procure an editor in other quar- 
ters but without efiect. The task was beset with con- 
siderable difficulties, and men of established reputation 
naturally declmedan undertaking to the performance 
of which, it was scarcely to be hoped thai general ap- 
probation could be obtained by cui exertion of judg- 
ment or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, my accus- 
loraod studies, and my occupations, were certainly 
Utile suited ; but the partiality of Mr. Syme thought 
me in other respects not unqualified ; and his solicita- 
tions, joined to those of our excellent friend and rela- 
tion, Mrs. Dutilop, and of other friends of the family 
of the poet, 1 have not been able to resist. To remove 
d*£cultie8 which would otherwise have been insur- 



mountable, Mr. Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns made a 
journey to Liverpool, where they explaine<^j sr.d ".r- 
rangedthe manuscripts, and selected such as seemed 
worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de- 
gree of pleagure which has compensated miTch of my la- 
bour. I had the satisfaction of renewing my personal 
intercourse with a much valued friend, and of forming 
an acquaintance with a man, closely allied to Burns in 
talents as well as in blood, in whose future fortunes 
the friends of virtue will not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been delayed 
by obstacles which these gentlemen could neither re- 
move nor foresee, and which it would be tedious to 
enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part 
which I have taken shall serve the interest of the fami- 
ly, and receive the approbation of good men, I shall 
have my recompense. The errors into which I have 
fallen are not, 1 hope, very important, and they will 
be easily accounted for by those who know the circum- 
stances under which this undertaking hai been per- 
formed. Generous minds will receive the posthumous 
works of Burns with candour, and even partiality, as 
the remains of an unlortunate man of genius, publish- 
ed for the benefit of his family— as the stay of the wid- 
ow and the hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are 
omitted in the wriiings.and avoided in the life of Burns, 
that have a tendency to awaken the animosity of jiarty. 
In perusing tlie following volumes no offence will be 
received, except by those to whom even the natural 
erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters that: will 
scarcely be found among those who are educated to 
the profession of arms. Such men do not court situa- 
tions of danger, or tread in the paths of glory. They 
will not be found in your sevice, which, in our own 
days, emulates on another element the superior fame 
of the Macedonian phalanx, or of the Roman legion, 
and which has, lately made the shores of Europe'and 
Africa resound with, the shouts of victory, from Texel 
to the Tagus, and from the Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by 
one who stands in the foremost rank ot this noble ser- 
vice, and who deserves his station. On the land or 
on the sea, I know no man more capable of judging of 
the character or of the writings of this original genius. 
Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot always 
occupy your leisure. These volumes may sometimes 
engage your attention, while the steady breezes of the 
tropic swell your sails, and in another quarter of the 
earth charm you with the strains of nature, or awake 
in your memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer 
me to hope that they may sometimes recall to your 
mind the I'riend who addresses you, and who bide yoo 
— most affectionately — adieu 1 



J. CURRIB. 



Liverpool, 1st Ti^nti 



FRIiFATORir REMARKS 

TO THE LIFE 
OF 

ROBERT BURNS. 



THOUGH the dialect in which many of the hap- 
ricst effusions of i?o6ert Burns are composed be pecu- 
(iai- to Scotland, yet his reputation has extended itself 
heyond the limits of that country, and his poetry has 
been admired as the offspring of original genius, by 
persons of taste in every part of the sister islands. The 
interest excited by his early death, and the distress of 
his infant family, have been felt in a remarkable man- 
ner wherever his writings have been icnown : and 
these posthumous volumes, which give to the world his 
worl«8 complete, and which, it is hoped, may raise his 
widow and children from penury , are printed and pub- 
lished in England. It seems proper, therefore, to write 
the memoirs of his life, not with the view of their being 
read by Scotcfimen only, but also by natives of England, 
and of^other countries where the English language is 
Epjkea or understood. 



Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has been rep- 
resented to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the in- 
cidents of his humble story generally intelligible, it 
seems therefore, advisable to prefix some observations 
on the character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged— a class of men distinguished by many pe- 
culiarities : by this means we shall form a more cor- 
rect notion of the advantages with which he started, 
and of the obstacles which he surmounted. A few ob- 
servations on the Scottish peasantry will not, perhaps, 
be found unworthy of attention in other respects ; and 
the subject is, in a great measure, new. Scotland has 
produced persons of high distinction in every branch 
of philosophy and literature ; and her history, while a 
separate and independent nation, has been success- 
fully explored. But the present character of the people 
was not then formed ; the nation then presented fea- 
tures similar to those which the feudal system of the 
catholic religion had diffused over Europe, modified, 
indeed, by the peculiar nature of her territory and cli- 
mate. The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national character, was 
Bpeetiily followed by the accession of the Scottish 
monarchs to the Enslish throne ; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, has been 
rendered memorable, chiefly, by those bloody convul- 
sions in which both divisions of the island were in- 
volved, and which, in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian the domestic history of the 
people, and the gradual variations in their condition 
and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though the 
seat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore the House 
of Stuart to the \hrone, has enjoyed a comparative 
tranquility ; and it is since this period that the present 
character of her peasantry has been in a great measure 
formed, thongh the political causes alTecting it are to 
ne traced to the previous acts of her separate legisla- 
ture. 



A slight acquaintance with the peasanty of Scotland 
will serve to convince an unprejudiced observer, that 
they possess a degree of intelligence not generally 
found among the same class of men in the other coun- 
tries of Europe. In the very humblest comlition of the 
Scaitish peasants, every one can read, and most per- 



sons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; 
and, under the disguise of their uncouth appearance, 
and of their peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger 
will discover that they possess a curiosity, and have 
obtained a degree of information, corresponding to 
these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal proTision 
made by the parliament of Scotland in 1646, for the 
establishment of a school in every parish throughout 
the kingdom, forthe express purpose of educating th# 
poor : a law which may challenge comparison with 
any act of legislation to be found in the records of his- 
tory, whether we consider the wisdom of the ends in 
view, the simplicity of the means employed, or the pro- 
visions made to render these means eft'ectual to their 
purpose. This excellent statute was repealed on the 
accession of Chailes II. in 1660, together with all the 
other laws passed during the commonwealth, as not 
being sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept during the 
reigns of Charles and James, but was re-enacted, pre- 
cisely in the same terms, by the Scottish parliament 
after the revolution, in 1696 ; and this is the last pro- 
vision on the subject. Its effects on the national cha- 
racter may be considered to have commenced about 
the period of the Union ; and doubtless it co-operated 
with the peace and security arising from that happy 
event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour 
of industry and good morals, which the character of 
the common people of Scotland has since undergone.* 

The church establishment of Scotland happily coin- 
cides with the institutions just mentioned, which may 
be called its school establishment. The clergymen 
being every where resident in his particular parish, 
becomes the natural patron and superintendent of the 
parish school, and is enabled in various ways to pro- 
mote the comJfort of the teacher, and the proficiency of 
the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candidate 
for holy orders, who, during the long course of study 
and probation required in the Scottish church, renders 
the time which can be spared from his professional 
studies, useful to others as well as to himself, by as- 
suming the respectable character of a schoolmaster. It 
is common for the eetablished schools, even in the 
country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of 
classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, and 
some even of the cottagers, submit to much privation, 
that they may obtain for one of their sons at least, the 
precarious advantage of a learned education. The 
difficulty to be surmounted arises, indeed, not from 
the expense of instructing their children, but from the 
charge of supporting them. In the country parish 
schools, the English language, writing, and accounts, 
are generally taught at the rate of six shillings, and 
Lntin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings per annum. 
In the towns the prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to intjiiire minntelf 
into the degree of instruction received in these semi- 

• See Appemjx, No. I. Note. A, 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



wanes, or to attempt any precise estimate of its effects, 
either oa tile iiulividuals wlio are tiie siiljects ot tliis 
insirucuon, or on the community to which they belong. 
That it is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual excep- 
tions, seems to be proved by the most sinking and de- 
cisive appearance ; and it is equally clear, that it is the 
cause of that spirit of emigration and of adventure so 
prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord 
Verulam, been denominated power ; by otiiers it has 
with less propriety been dsnominated virtue or happi- 
ness : we may with conHdence consider it as motion. 
A human being, in proportion as he is informed, has 
nis wishes enlarged, as well as the means of gratifying 
those wishes. He may be considered as taking within 
the sphere of his vision a large portion of the globe on 
which we tread, and discovering advantage at a great- 
er distance on its surface, i^is desires or ambition, 
once excited, are stimulated by his imagination ; and 
disi.mi and uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the 
oper.uion of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of 
the youthful adventurer, an attraction from their very 
distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater de- 
gree of instruction be given to the peasantry of a coun- 
try comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries rich in' natural and acquired advantages; 
and if the barriers be removed that keiit them sepa- 
rate, emigration from the former to the latter -.vill take 
place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform as 
those by which heat diffuses itself among surrounding 
bodies, or water finds its level when left to its natnral 
course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was 
broken down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the adventurous 
natives of the north over the fertile plains of England ; 
and more especially, over the colonies which she had 
settled in the east and west. The stream o population 
continues to flow from the north to the south ; for the 
causes tha*. originally impelled it continue to operate ; 
and the richer country is cousnantly invigorated by the 
accession of an informed and hardy race of men, edu- 
cated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and dan- 
ger ; patient of labour, and prodigal of life.* 

The preachers of '.he Reformation in Scotland were 
disciples of Calvin, and brought with them the temper 
as well as the tenets of that celebrated lieresiarch. 
The presbyterian form of worship and of church gov- 
ernment \vas endeared to the i>eople, from its being 
eslaolished by themselves. It was endeared to them, 
also, by the struggle it had to maintain with the Cath- 
olic and the Protestant episcopal churches ; over both 
of which, after a hundied years uf tierce and sometimes 
bloody contention, it tinal'ly lriumi)hed, receiving the 
counlenance of government, and the sanction of law. 
During this long period of contention and suffering, the 
temper of the people became more and more obstinate 
and bigoted : and the nation received that deep tinge 
of fanaUcism which coloured their public tiansactions, 
as well as their piivate virtues, in our own tim^g. 
When the public schools were established, the instruc- 
tion communicated in them partook of the religious 
character of the pe^iple. The Catechism of the 
Westminster Divines waj the universal school-book, 
and was put into the hands of the young peasant as 
soon as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercise in the art of reading introduced 
hitn to the most mysterious doctrines of the Christian 
faith. This )jraclice is continued in our own times. 
Aftb" the Asserhbly's Catechism, 'hp Proverbs of Solo- 
mon, Hiid the New and Old Testament, follow in regu- 
lar succession ; and the scholar departs, gifted with 
the knowledge of the sacred writings, and receiving 
their doctrines according to the interpretation of the 
Westminster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the 
instructii-n of infancy in the schools of Scotland are 
blended the dogmas of the national church ; and hence 
the first and most constant exarcise of ingenuity among 
the peasantry of Scotland is displayed in religious dis- 
putation. With a strong attachment to the national 
creed, is conjoined a bigoted preference to certain forms 
of worship; the source of which would be often alto- 
gether obscure, if we did not recollect that the cere- 

* See Appendi.'c, No. 1. Note B. 



monies of the Scottish Church were framed m nirect 
opposition, in every point, to those oi the church of 
Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and "ingiiiarities ea 
opinion and manners, which characterized the Eng- 
lish sectaries in the 'ast century, afforded a subject for 
the comic muse of Bnller, whose pictures lose their 
interest, since their archetjijes are lost. Some of the 
peculiarities common among the more rigid disciples 
of Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have 
given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is 
equal to Butler's, and whose drawings from living 
manners are sinsularly exi)ressive and exact. Un- 
fortunately the correctness of his taste did not alwayt 
correspond with the strength of his genius; and hence 
some of the most exquisite of his comic productioua 
are rendered unfit for the light.* 

The information' and the Religions education of tha 
peasantry of Scotland, ptomote sedateness of conduct, 
and habits of thought and reflection. These good 
qualities are not counteracted, by the establishment ol 
poor l^ws, which while they reflect credit on the "re- 
nevolence, detract fmin the wisdom of the English 
legislature. To make a legal provision for the inevita- 
ble distresses of the poor, who by age or disease are 
rendered incapable of labour, may indeed seem an in- 
dispensable duty of society ; and if, in the execution ol 
a plan for this purpose, a distinction could be intro- 
duced, so as to exclude from its benefits those whose 
sufferings are produced by idleness or profligacy, such 
an institution would perhaps be as rational as huma<ie. 
But to lay a general tax on property for the support ot 
poverty, from whatever cause proceeding, is a mea- 
sure full of danger. It must operate in a considerable 
degree as an incitement to idleness, and a discourage-- 
meiit to industry. It takes away from vice and indo- 
lence the prospect of their most dreaded conseq'.iences, 
and from virtue and industry their peculiar sanc- 
tions. In many cases it must render the rise in the 
price of labour, not a blessing but a curse to the la- 
bourer ; who, if there be an. excess in what he earns 
beyond his immediate necessities, maybe expected io 
devote this excess to his present gratification ; trust- 
ing to the provision made by law for his own and his 
family's support, should disease suspend, or death 
terminate his labours. Happily, in Scotland, thesame 
legislature which established a system of ii'strnctiou 
for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal pro- 
vision for the support of poverty ; the establishment of 
the first, and the rejection of the last, were equally fa- 
vourable to industry and good morals ; and hence it 
will not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry 
libve a more than usual share of prudence and re- 
flecticm, if they approach nearer than persons of their 
order usually do, to the definition cf a man, that of" a 
being that looks before and alter." These observa 
lions must indeed be taken with many exceptions : the 
favourable operation of the causes just mentioned is 
counteracted by others of an opposite tendency; and 
the subject if fully examined, would lead to discussions 
of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established in Scotland 
instrumental music was banished from the churches, 
as savouring too much of" profane minstrelsy." In- 
stead of being regulated by an instrument, thii voices 
of the congregation are led and directed by a person 
under the name of preceptor ; and the people are ill 
ex()ected to join in the tune which he chooses for the 
psalm which is to be sung. Church-music is therefcre 
a part of the education of the peasantry of Scotland, 
in which they are usually instructed in the long winter 
nights by the parish seho:ilraaster, who is generally 
the preceptor, or by itinerant teachers more or less 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This branch ot 
eJucation had, in the last reign fallen into some neg- 
lect, but was revived about thirty or forty years ago, 
when the music itself was reformed and improved. 
The Scottish system of psalmody is, however, radical- 

* Hclv Willie's Praver; Rob the Rhymer's Wel- 
come lohis Bastard Child ; Epistle to J. Gowdie i the 
Holy Tulzie &c. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



»y oad. Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a 
striking contrast with liin delicacy and patlios of the 
profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was tauglit 
ctiurch-music, in whicii, however, he made little pro- 
ficiency. 

That dancing ehould also be very generally a part 
of the education of the Scottish peasantry, will sur- 
prise those who have only seen this descriplicn of men : 
and still more those wlio reflect on the rigid spirit of 
Caivanisra with which ilie rutiouis so deeply affected, 
and to whicli this recreation is so strongly alihorrent 
The winter is also the season wlien they acquire dan 
cing, and indeed almost all the other instruction 
They are taught to dance by persons generally ol Iheii 
own number, inany of whom work at daily labour 
during the summer months. The school is usually a 
barn, and the arena for the performers is generally a 
clay floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in 
one end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is 
thrust into the wall. Keels, strathspeys, country- 
dances, and hornpipes, are here practised. The jig 
so much in favour among the English peasantry, has 
no place among them. The aitaciimenl of the people 
of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of the 
peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. After 
the labours of the day are over, young men and wo- 
men walk many miles, in the cold and dreary nights of 
winter, to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems 
to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his fea- 
tures brighten with sympathy ; every nerve seems to 
thrill with sensation, and every artery to vibrate with 
life. These rustic performers are indeed less to be 
admired for grace, than for agility and animation, and 
their accurate observance of time, 'J'heir modes of 
dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In 
our own day they have penetrated into Kngland, and 
hive established themselves even ui the circle of royal- 
ty. In another generation they will be naturalized in 
every part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion for 
dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured with the 
spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one of those contra- 
dictions which the philosophic observer so often finds 
in national character and manners. It is probably to 
be ascribed to the Scottish music, which throughout 
all its varieties, is so full of sensibility ; and which, in 
its livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions that 
find in dancing their natural solace and rehef. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spir- 
it of the established religion, has not, however, been 
obtained without long continued and obstinate strug- 
gles. The numerous sectaries who dissent from the 
esfablishment on account of the relaxation which they 
perceive, or think they perceive, in the church, from 
her original doctrines and dicii)line, universally con- 
demn the practice of dancing, and the schools where it 
is taught ; and the more elderly and serious part of the 
people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather than ap- 
prove these meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
■where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence 
itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of 
the other fine arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but 
could not obstruct the progress of its music : a cir 
cumstance that will convince the impartial inquirer, 
that this music not only existed previously tothataera, 
but had taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus Etfl'ording 
a proof of its antiquity, stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. 

The imjiression which the Scottish music has made 
on the people, is deepened by its union with the nation- 
al songs, of which various collections of unequal 
merit are before the public. These songs, like those 
of other nations, are many of them humorous; but 
they chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love is 
the subject of the greater portion. Without display- 
ing the higher powers of the imagination, they exhibit 



a perfect knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a 
spirit of aftection, and sometimes of delicate and ro- 
mantic tenderness, not to be surpassed in modera 
poetry, and wlHch the more polished strains of antiqui- 
ty liave seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the rustic 
muse of Scotland, or of the greater number of these 
love-songs themselves, it would be difiicult to trace; 
:hey have accumulated in the silent lapse of time, and 
It IS now perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of 
them in Uie order of tiicir date, valuable as such a. 
record of taste and manners would be. Their present 
influence on the character of the nation is, however, 
great and striking. To them we must attribute, in a 
great meag^ire, the romantic passion which so often 
characterizes the attachments of the humblest of the 
people of Scotland to a degree, that if we mistake not, 
is seldom found in the same rank of society in othei 
countries. The pictures oflove and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of 
the peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the 
music with which they are united. They associate 
themselves with his own youthful emotions ; they ele- 
vate the object as well as the nature of his attachment ; 
and give to the impressions of sense the beautiful 
colours of imagination. Hence in the course of his 
passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of ad- 
venture, of which a Spanish cavalier need not be 
ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he 
sets out for the habitation of his mistress, perhaps at 
many miles distance, regardless of the length or the 
dreariness of the way. He approaches her in secresy, 
under the disguise of night. A signal at the door or 
window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none 
but her, gives information of his arrival; and some- 
times it is repealed again and again, before the capri- 
cious lair one will obey the summons. But if she fa- 
vours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, and re- 
ceives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, 
or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kinil 
are the subjects of many of the Scottish songs, some of 
the most beautiful of which Burns has imitated or im- 
proved. In the art which they celebrate he was per- 
fectly skilled ; he knew and had practsed all its myste- 
ries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal even 
in the humblest condition of man in every region of the 
earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose that it may 
exist in a greater degree, and in a more romantic 
form, among the peasanry of a country who are sup- 
posed to be more than commonly instructed ; who find 
in their rural songs expressions for their youthful emo- 
tions : and in whom the embers of passion arecontinu- 
ally fanned by the breathings of a music full of tender- 
ness and sensibility. The direct influence of physical 
causes on the attachment between the sexes is com- 
paratively small, but it is modified by moral causes 
beyond any other affection of the mind. Of these, mu- 
sic and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of 
Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, the 
savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and every 
where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with 
poetry and song,* 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a com- 
munity, there is perhaps no single criterion on which 
so much dependence maybe placed, as the state of the 
intercourse between the sexes. Where this displays 
ardour of attachment, accompanied by purity of con« 
duct, the character and the influence of woman rise in 
society, our imperfect nature mounts in the scale of 
moral excellence ; and, from the source of this single 
aflTection, a stream of felicity descends, which branches 
into a thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the 
field of life. Where the attachment between the sexes 
sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is 
comparatively poor, and man approaches the condition 
ol the brutes tkatptrish. "If we could with safety 
indulge the pleasing supposition that Fingal lired and 

• The North American Indians, among whom the 
attachment between the sexes are said to be weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, seem 
nearly unacquainted with the charms of poetry aud 
music. See Weld't Tour, 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



that Ossian sung,'" Scotland, judging from ihis crite- 
rion, migiii be considered as rauking liigh in happiness 
and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
situation by the same criterion, would be a delicate and 
difficult undertaking. After considering the proba- 
ble influence of hir popular songs and her national 
music, and examining how far the efl'ects to be ex- 
pected from these are supported by facts, the iu-^uirer 
would also have to examine the influence of other 
causes, and particularly of her civil and ecclesiastical 
institutions, by which the character, and even the inan- 
ners of a people, though silently and slowly, are ollen 
powerfully controlled. In the point of view in which 
■we are considering the subject, the ecclesiastical eatab- 
}ishments of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
vourable to purity of conduct. 'I'he dissoluteness of 
manners among the Cailiolic clergy, which proceeded, 
and in some measure produced tlie Reformation, led 
to an extraordinary striciness on the part of the re- 
formers, and especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to Us 
greatest height— the intercourse between the sexes. 
Onthi^ point, as on all others connected with austerity 
of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater 
severity than those of the froiestanl episcopal church. 
The punishment of illicit connexion between the sexes, 
■Was throughout all Kurope,a province which the clergy 
assumed to themselves i and the church of Scotland, 
which at the Reformation renounced so many powers 
and privileges, at that period took this cnme under her 
more especial jurisdiciion.t VVhen pregnancy takes 
place without marriage, the condiiion of the female 
causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, in the 
first instance, that tile clergy and elders of the chuich 
exercise their zeal. After examination before the kn-k- 
session, touching the circumstances of her guilt, she 
must endure a public penance, and sustain a public re- 
buke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, 
in the face ot the congregation to which she belongs, 
and thus have her weakness exposed, and her shame 
blazoned. The sentence is the same with respect to 
the male; but how much lighter the punishment ! It 
is well known that this dreadful law, worthy the iron 
minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- 
quences, at the very meuiion of which humaa nature 
recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by 
the institutions of Scotland is severe, the culprits have 
an obvious method of avoiding it afforded them by the 
law respecting marriage, the validity of which requires 
neither the ceremonies of the church, nor any other 
ceremonies, but simply the deliberate acknowledgment 
of each other as husband and wife, made by the parties 
before witnesses, or in any other way that gives legal 
evidence of such an acknowledgment having taken 
place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of 
their marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid 
the punishment, and repair the consequences of illi- 
cit graiilicaiion. Such a degree of laxity respecting 
so serious a contract miglii produce much confusion in 
the descent of property, without a still farther indul- 
geuce ; but the law of Scotland, legitimating all 
children born before wedlock, on the subsequent mar- 
riage of their parents, renders the actual date of the 
marriage itself of little consequence.J Marriages 
contracted in Scotland without the ceremonies of the 
church, are considered as irregular, and the parties 
usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the 
face of their respective congregations, which is not 
however necessary to render the marriage valid. 
Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was irregular, 
does not seem to have undergone this part of the disci- 
pline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in 
many particulars favourable to a conduct among the 
peasantry founded on foresight and reflection, on the 
•ubject of marriage the reverse of this is true. Irregu 

• Gibbon, 

T See Appendix, No 1. Note C. 

i See Appendix, No. I, Note D. 



lar marriages, it may be naturally supposed, are often 
improvident ones, in whatever rank of society they 
occur. The children of such marriages, poorly en- 
dowed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruc- 
tion of easy acquisition ; but the comforts of life, and 
the gratifications of ambition, they find of more diffi- 
cult attainment in their native soil ; and thus the 
marriage laws of Scotland conspire with other cir- 
cumstances, to produce the habit of emigration, anil 
spirit of adventure, for which the people are so re- 
markable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish 
peasantry ()o not bespeak to a stranger the degree 
of their cultivation. In our own country, their indua- 
Iry is inferior to that of the same description •f men 
in the southern division of the island, industry and 
the useful arts reached Scotland later than Kngland ; 
and though their advance has been rapid there, the 
eflects produced are as yet far inferior both in reality 
and in appearance. The Scottish farmers have in 
general neither the opulence nor the comforts of those 
of Kngland, neither vest the same capital in the soil, 
nor receive fiom it the same return. Their clothing, 
their food, and their habitations, are almost every 
where inferior.* Their appearance in these respects 
corresponds with the appearance of their country ; and 
under the operation of patient industry, both are im- 
proving. liKluslry and the useful arts come later into 
England, because the security of property came later. 
With causes of internal agitation and w^arfare, similar 
to those which occun-ed to the more southern nation, 
the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminent 
hazards, and more extensive and destructive spolia- 
tion, from external war. Occupied in the maintenance 
of their independence against their more powerful 
neighbours, to this were necessarily sacrificed the arts 
of peace, and at certain periods, the flower of their 
population. And when the union of the crowns pro- 
duced a security from national wars with England, for 
the century succeeding, the civil wars common to 
both divisions of the island, and the dependence, per- 
haps the necessary dependence of the Scottish councils 
on those of the more powerful kingdom, counteracted 
this disadvantage. Even the union of the British na- 
tions was not, from obvious causes, immediately fol- 
lowed by all the benefits which it was ultimately des- 
tined to produce. At length, however, these benefits 
are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. Prop- 
erty is secure ; manufactures and commerce increas- 
ing ; and agriculture is rapidly improving in Scotland. 
As yet, indeed, the farmers are not, in general, enabled 
to make improvements out of their own capitals, as 
in England ; but the landholders, who have seen and 
felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute to- 
w^ards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, as 
well as population, is accumulating rapidly on the 
Scottish soil ; and the nation, enjoying a gieat part of 
the blessings of Englishmen and retaining several of 
their own happy institutions, might be considered, if 
confidence could be placed in human foresight, to be as 
yet only in an early stage of their progress. Yet there 
are obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of 
the soil are.opposed the extent and the strictness of the 
entails ; to'lhe improvement of the people, the rapidly 
increasing use of spirituous liquors,! a detestable prac- 
tice, which includes in its consequences almost every 
evil, physical and moral. The peculiarity social di«- 

* These reniarks are confined to the class of far- 
mers ; the same corresponding inferior will not be 
found in the condition of the cottagers and labourers, 
at least in the article of food, as those who examine 
this subject impartially will soon discover. 

t The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
Scotland is now upwards of 250,000/. annually. la 
1777, it did not reach 8,000/. The rate of the duty has 
indeed been raised, but making every allowance, the 
increase of consumption must he enormous. This is 
independentof the duty ou malt, &c. malt liquar im- 
ported spirits, and \» iue. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



position of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this 
practice, 'i'his disposition, which is I'oslered by tiieir 
national songs and music, is perhaps characteristic of 
the nation at large. Though llie souice of many 
pleasures, it counteracts by its consequences the ettecis 
ol their patience, industry, and frugality, both at 
home and abroad, of which tliose especially who have 
witnessed the progress of Scotchmen in other coun- 
tries, must have known many striking instances. | 

Since the Union, the manners and language of the 
people of Scotland have no longer a standard among 
themselves, but are tried by the standard of the nation 
to which they are uni'eil. Though their habits are 
far from being flexible, 761 it is evident that their man- 
ners and dialect are undergoing a rapid chanse. Even 
the farmers of the present day apear to have less of 
tiie peculiarities of their country in their speech, than 
the men of letters of the last generation. Burns, who 
never left the island, nor penetrated farther into Eng- 
land than Carlisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on 
tlie other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, 
v/ho livet' for many years in the best society of Eng- 
land and France : or perhaps than Robertson, who 
wro.e the English language in a style of such purity ; 
and if he had been in other respects fitted to take a 
lead in the British House of Commons, his pronuncia- 
tion would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor de- 
prived it of its due efl'ect, 

A striking particular in the character of the Scottish 
peasantry, is one which it is hoped will not be lost — 
the strength of their domestic attachments. The pri- 
vation to which many parents submit for the good of 
their children, and particularly to obtain for them 
instruction, which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and pros- 
per, they have tueir certain reward, not merely in 
witnessing, '»ut as sharing of their prosperity. Even 
in the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earnings 
c'"'.he children may generally be considered as at the 
disposal of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so 
large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the 
support and comfort of those whose days of labour are 
past. A similar strength of attachment extends through 
all the domestic relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable character- 
istic of his humble compeers ; he was also strongly 
tinctured with another striking feature which belongs 
to them, a partiality for his native country, of which 
many proofs may be found in his writinss. This, it 
must be confessed, is a very strong and general senti- 
ment among the natives of Scotland, diiiering, how- 
ever, in its character, accordmgto the character of the 
difterent minds in which it is found ; in some appearing 
a selfish prejudice, in others, a generous aliection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, 
common to all men It is found among the inhabitants 
of every region of the eai th, from the arctic to the an- 
tartic circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of sur- 
face and of civilization. To analyze this general sen- 
timent, to trace it through the mazes of association up 
to the primary affection in which it has its source, 
would neither be a ditficult nor an unpleasing labour. 
On the first consideration of the subject, we should 
perhaps expect to find this attachment strong in pro- 
portion to the physical advantages of the soil ; but in- 
quiry, far from confirming this supposition, seems 
rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. In those fer- 
tile regions where beneficent nature yield* almost 
spontaneously whatever is necessary to human wants, 
patriotism, as well as every other generous sentiment, 
seems weak and languid. In countries less richly en- 
dowed, where the comforts, and even necessaries of 
life must be purchased by patient toil, the affections of 
the mind, as well as the faculties of the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism flourishes 
amiilst its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to 
combine for mutual defence, as well as for the sup- 
ply of common wants, mutual good-will springs from 
mutual difficulties and labours, the social affections 
unfold themselves, and extend from the men with 
whom we live, to the soil on which we tread. It will 
t^tiihapB be fouuU indeed, that our affections cannot be 

II 



I originally called forth, but by objects capable, or sup- 
I posed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and of returcs- 
mg thtin ; but when once excited they are strengthen- 
led by exercise, Ihey are expanded by the powers of 
imagination, and seize more especially on those inani 
mate parts of creaiion, which form the theatre on 
winch we have first felt the alternations of joy, and 
sorrow, and first tasted the sweets of sym|>athy and 
regard. If this reasoning be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even extinguished in 
individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be 
presumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong 
among a people in proportion to their social, and 
mure especially to their domestic affections. lu 
free governments it is found more active than in 
despotic ones, because as the individual becomes 
of more con.sequence in the community, the com- 
munity becomes of more consequence to him. In 
small states it is generally more active than in large 
ones, for the same reason, and also because the in 
dependence of a small community being maintained 
with difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments 
of patriotism are more frequently excited. In moun- 
tainous countries it is generally found more active than 
in plains, because there the necessities of life often re- 
quire a closer union of tiie inhabitants ; and more es- 
pecially, because in such countries, though less popu- 
lous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being 
scattered equally over the whole are usually divided 
into small communities on the sides of their separate 
valleys, end on the banks of their respective streams ; 
situations well calculated to call forth and to concen- 
trate the social affections, amidst scenery that acts 
most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting im- 
pression on the memory. It may also be remarked, 
that mountainous countries are often peculiarly cal- 
culated to nourish sentiments of national pride and 
independence, irum the influence of history on the af" 
fections of the mmd. In such countries from their 
natural strength, inferior nations have maintained 
their independence against their more powerful neigh- 
bours, and valour, in all ages^ has made Us most suc- 
cessful effort against oppression. Such countries pre- 
sent the fields of battle, where the tide of invasion was 
rolled back, and where the ashes of those rest, who 
have died m defence of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we have men- 
tioned is doubtless more general and more permanent, 
where the scenery of a country, the peculiar manners 
of its inhabitants, and the martial achievmenls of their 
ancestors are embodied in national songs, and united 
to national music. By this combination, the ties that 
attach men to the land of their birth are multiplied and 
strengthened : and the images of infancy, strongly as- 
sociating with the general affections, resist the influ- 
ence of time, and of new impressions ; they often sur- 
vive in countries far distant, and amidst far dif- 
ferent scenes, to the latest periods of life, to sooth 
the heart with the pleasures of memory, when those of 
hope die away. 

If this reasoning he just, it will explain to us why, 
among the natives of Scotland, even of cultivated 
minds, we so generally find a partial attachment to the 
land of their birth, and why this is so strongly discov- 
erahle in the writings of Burns, who joined in the 
higher powers of the understanding the most ardent 
affections. Let no men of reflection think it a super 
uous labour to trace the rise and progress of a cha 
racier like his. Born in the condition of apeasant, he 
rose by the force of his nrtind into distinction and influ- 
ence, and in his works has exhibited what are so rare- 
ly found, the charms of original genius. With a deep 
insight into the human heart, his poetry exhibits high 
powers of imagination — it displays, and as it were em- 
balms, the peculiar manners of his country ; and it 
may be considered as a monument, not to his own 
name onlv, but to the expiring genius of an ancient and 
once independent nation. In relating the incidents of 
his life, candour will prevent us from dwelling invidi- 
ously on those failings which justice forbids us to con- 
ceal ; we will tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, 
and respect the laurels that shelter his uutimel/ 
grave. 



THE LIFE 

OP 

BV DR. CURBIE. 



ROBERT BURNS was, as is wel' known, the son 
•t"a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards himself a far- 
mer there; but, having been unsuccessful, he was 
about to emigrate to Jamaica. He had pre^ously, 
however, attracted some notice by his poetical talents 
in the vicinity where he lived ; and having published 
a small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, thisdiew 
upon him more general attention. In consequence of 
the encourag-ement he received, lie repaired to Edin- 
Durgh, and there published by subscription, an im- 
proved and enlarged edition of his poems, which met 
with extraordinary success. By the profits arising 
from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter 
on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a 
person to whom he had long been attached, he retired 
to devote the remainder of his life to agiiculture. He 
was again, however, unsuccessful ; and, abandoning 
his farm, he removed into the town of Dumfries, where 
he filled an inferior office in the excise, and where he 
terminated his life, in July 1796, in his thirty-eighth 
year. 

The strength and originality of his genius procured 
liim the notice of many persons distinguished in the 
republic of letters, and anjong others, that of Mr. 
Moore, well known for his Vieics of Society and Man- 
ners on the Continent of Europe, Zeluco,a.nA various 
other works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a 
letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history 
of his life, up to the period of his writing. In a com- 
position never intended to see the light, elegance, or 
perfect correctness of composition will notbe exprcled. 
These, however, wih be compensated by the opportu- 
nity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidentR of his 
life, unfold the peculiarities of his character with all 
the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind. 

Mauckline,2d August, 1787. 
" Sir, 

" For some months past I have been rambling over 
the country ; but I am now confined with some linger- 
ing complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. 
To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fng of 
ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of 
my life. My name has made some little noise in this 
country ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a 
faithful account of what character of a man I am, and 
how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you 
in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narra- 
tive ; though I know it will be often at my own ex- 
pense ; for I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, 
whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of 
wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble — I have, I say, 
like him, turned my eyes to behold madness and folly , 
and, like him, too frequently shaken hands with their 
intoxicating friendship.* * * After you have perused 
these pages, should you think them trifling and imper- 
.inent, I only begleave to tell you, that the poor author 
wrote them under some twitching quaimi of coo- 



science , arising from suspicion that he was doing what 
he ought not to do : a predicament he has more than 
once been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to assume 
that character which the pye-coated guardians of es- 
cutcheons call a Gentleman. When at Edinburgh 
last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's Office ; 
and, looking through that granary of honours, 1 
there found almost every name in the kingdom : but 
for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood.'' 
Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite disowned me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of 
a farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the 
world at large ; where, after many years' wanderinga 
and sojouriiings, he picked up a pretty large quantity 
of observation and experience, to which I am indebted 
for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have 
met with few who understood wn, their Tnanners, and 
their ways, eqird] to him; but stubborn, ungainly in- 
tegrity, and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are 
disqualifying circumstances ; conseqnenily I was born 
a very poor man's son. For the first six or seven 
years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy 
genllemanof small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. 
Had he continued in that situation, I must have 
marched otf to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to 
have it in his power to keep his children under his own 
eve till thev could discern between good and evil ; so 
with the assistance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those 
years 1 was by no means a favorite with any body. ! 
was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stub- 
born, sturdy something in my disposition, and an en- 
thusiastic i'deot* piety. I say ideot piety, because I 
was tlien but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster 
some thrashings, 1 made an excellent English scholar ; 
and by the time 1 was ten or eleven years of age, I was 
a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my 
infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable for hei 
ignorance, credidity and superstition. She had, I 
suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales 
and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies 
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, clfcandles 
dead-lights, writhes, apparitions, cantraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. 
This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had 30 
strong an elFect on my imagination, that to this hour, 
in my nocturnal rambles. 1 sometimes keep a sharp 
look-out in suspicious places : and though nobody can 

• Idiot /or idiotic. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it of- 
ten taltes an effort of pliilosophy to shake off these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect tak- 
ing pleasure in, was Tlie Vision oj Mirza, and a hymn 
of Anderson's, beginning, How are Ihy servants blest, 
OLordi 1 particularly remember one half stanza, 
which was music to my boyish ear — 

"For though on dreadful whirs we l.ung 
Ilieh on the broken wave — " 

T met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, 
one of my school bonks. These two tirst books I ever 
read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than 
any two books I ever read since, were The Life of 
Hanriibal and The History of Sir Wiiliam Wallace. 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used 
to strut in raptures up and <Iovvn after the recruit- 
ing drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enouglv 
to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured 
a Scottish prejudice into my veins, wliich will boil 
along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest. 

" Polornical divinity about this time was putting the 
couiiiry half mad; and I. ambitious of shining in con- 
versation parties on Sundays, between sermons, at 
f.iiierals, &c. used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle 
Caivinism with so much heat and indiscretion that I 
raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has 
not ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Avrwaa of some advantage tome. 
Wy social disposilion, when not checked by some 
modifications of spirited pride,was, like our catechism- 
definition of infinitude, without bounls or limits. I 
formed several connexions with other younkers who 
possessed superior advantages, the i/9'mo'^2Hg' actors, 
who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of iifs, where, 
alas ! 1 was destined to drudge behmd the scenes. It 
is not commonly at this green age that our young gen- 
try have a just sense of the immense distance between 
them and their ragged play-fellows. It takes a few 
dashes into the world, to give the young great man 
that proper, decent, nnnoticing disregard for the poor, 
insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasant- 
ry around him, who were perhaps born in the same 
village. My young superiors never insulted the c/o«^ 
erly appearance of my ploughboy carcass, the two ex- 
tremes of which were often exposed to all the inclem- 
encies of all the seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books ; among them, even then, I Could 
pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart [ 
am sure not even the Mnnny Begum scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French, farting with 
these my young friends and benefactors as they occa- 
sionallyweut off for the East or West Indies, was 
often to me a sore affliction ; bu'. I was soon called to 
moie ssrious evils. My father's generous master 
died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a 
factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one i.i 
my T.ile of Twa Dogs. My father was advanced in 
life when iie married ; I was the eldest of seven chil- 
dren ; ami he worn out by early hardships, was unfit 
for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but 
not easily broken. Tiierc was a freedom in his lease 
in two years mure; aad, to weather these two years, 
we retrenched our expenses. We lived veiy poorly: 
I was a dexterous ploughman, for my age ; and the 
next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could 
drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these 
scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my 

indijination yet boils at the recollection of the s ^1 

"factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set 
u» "jU in tears. 

" Th\3 kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, 
with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me 
to my sixteeii'h year : a little before which period I 
first committed the sin of Rhyjne. You know our 
country custom of coupling a man and woman to- 
dether as partneis in the labours of harvest. In my 



fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching crea- 
ture, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of 
English denies me ihe power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she waa 
a bonni/;, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether 
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious 
passion, which in spite of acid disappointment, gin- 
horse piudenc, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to 
be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here be 
low ! How she caught the contagion [ cannot tell : you 
medical people talk much of infection from breathing 
the same air, the touch, &c. : but I never expressly 
said I loved her. Indeed I did not know myself why I 
liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning 
in the evening (rom our labours ; why the tones of her 
voice made my heart strings thrill like an ^Eolian harp ; 
and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ra- 
tan when I looked and fingered over her iittle hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle stings and thistles. Among 
lier other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; 
and It was her favorite reel, to which I attempted giv- 
ing an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 1 was not so pre- 
sumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like 
printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and 
Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be 
composed by a small country laird's son, on one of hia 
maids, with whom he was in love I and 1 saw no rea- 
son why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, except- 
ing that he could smear sheeji, and cast peats, his fa- 
ther living in the moorlands, be had no more scholar- 
craft thaii myself.' 

"Thus with me began love and poetry: which at 
times have been my only, and till within the last twelve 
months, have been my higliest enjoyment. My father 
struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, 
when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles far- 
ther in the country. The nature of the bargain he 
made was such as to throw a little ready money into 
his hands at the commencemen of his lease, otherwise 
the affair would have been impracticable. For four 
years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference 
coinmencing between him and his landlord as to terms, 
after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex ol 
litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors 
of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years' 
promise, kindly stepped in and carried him away, to 
■where the wickLcl cease from troubling, and the weary 
are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm, 
that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the 
beginr.iiig of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, 
awkward boy in the parish — no solitare \va.s less ac- 
quainted with the ways of the world. What I knew 
of ancient story was gathered from Solomon's and 
Guthrie's geograjihical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern maimers, of literature and criti- 
cism, I got fiom the Spectator. These with Pope's 
Works, and some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dick- 
son en Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the HumanUnderstanding, Stackhouse'sHistory of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, 
Bayle's Lectures, Allan Rrimsny's Works, Taylor's 
Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collec- 
tion of English Songs, and Hervey's Mtditntions, 
had formed the whole of my reading. The collection 
of Songs was my vade viecum. I pored over them 
driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, 
verse by verse : carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced 
I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as 



" In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a 
brush, I went to a country dancingschool. My father 
had an unaccountable antipathy against these meet- 
ings ; and my going was, what to this moment 1 repent, 
in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said be- 
fore, was subject to strong passions ; from that in- 
stance of disobedience in me he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which 1 believe was one cause of the dissipation 
which marked iny succeeding years. I say dissipa- 
tion, comparitively with the strictness andsobiiety, 

• See Appendix, No. II. Note A. 



13 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



and regularity of preshyterian fountiy life ; forthough 
the Will o' VVis|) iiitleois ol ihoiiglnless whim were 
almost the sole lighu to my pHili, yet early ingrained 
piety ami virtue kept me tur several years afterwards 
within the line of innocence. 'I'lie great misfortune of 
my life was to want an aim. 1 had lelt early some 
stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings 
of Homer's Cyclop round tlie walls of his cave. 1 saw 
my father's situation entailed on me jierpetual labour. 
Theonly two openings by wliich 1 could enter the tem- 
ple of fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or 
the path of little chicaning Uargain-inaking. Thelirst 
is so contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze 
myself into it; — the last I always hated — there was 
coutaminatioQ in tiie very entrance ! Thus abandon- 
ed of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for 
sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride 
of observation and remark; a constitutional melan- 
choly or hypochondraism that made me fly from soli- 
tude ; add to these incentives to social life, my repula- 
tation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something like the 
rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surpris- 
ing that 1 wasgenerally a welcome guest where I visit- 
ed, or any great wonder that, always where two or 
three met together, there was I among them. But far 
beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un ptn- 
chiknt a Vadorable moitie du gtnre humain. My 
heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted 
up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other 
warfare in this world, my fortune was various, some- 
times 1 w.is received with favour, and sometimes 1 
was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
or reaping hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set 
absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared far- 
ther for my labours than while 1 was in actual exer- 
cise, 1 spent the evenings in the way after my own 
heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love-adven- 
ture without an ascenting confidant. I possessed a 
curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recom- 
mended me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
and I dare say, 1 fell as much pleasure in being in the se- 
cret of half tlie loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever 
did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
courts of Europe. The very goose feather in my hand 
seems to know instinctively the well worn path of my 
imagination, the favourite theme of my song : and is 
with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of 
paragraphs on the love adventures of my compeers, the 
humble inmates of the farm-house, and cottai;e, but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, bap- 
tize these things by the name of Follies. To the sons 
and daughters of labour and poverty, they are mat- 
ters of the most serious nature; to them, the ar- 
dent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, 
are the greatest and most delicious parts of their en- 
joyment. 

" Another circumstance in my life which marfc some 
alterations in my mind and manners, was tlia, 1 spent 
my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coaM, agoud 
distance from home at a noted school, tt, .earn men- 
suration, surveying, dialling, &c. in which 1 made a 
pretty good progress. But 1 made a greater progress 
in the kiiowbdge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that lime very successful, and it sometimes hap- 
pened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. 
{Scenes of swaggering, riot and roaringdissipation were 
till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
hie. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on 
with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun enter- 
ed Virgo, a month which is always carnival in my bo- 
som, when a charming Jilette who lived next door to 
the school, overset my trigonometry, andaet meotf at a 
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I however 
sti uggled OQ with my sines and cosines for a few days 
more : but stepping into the garden one charming noon 
to take the eau's altitude, there 1 met my angel, 

" Lllte Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower " 

" It «as in vain to think of doing any more 
igd at Si^iictU. The reraaiuing week 1 staid, 1 did 



nothing but craze the facultirs of my soul a\>oot her. 
or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights r 
my Slay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me 
guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably improved. My 
reading was enlarged with the very important addi- 
tion of 'i'hompson's and Shenstone's Works ; 1 had 
Seen human nature in a new pliasis ; and i engaged 
several of my school-fellows to keep up a literary cor- 
respundeiice with me. Tins improved me in compo- 
sition. 1 had met with a coUecli n of letters by the 
wits of tiueen Anne's reign, and J pored over theiti 
most devoutly ; 1 kept copies of any of my own letters 
that pleased me ; and a c'omparision between them and 
the composition of most of my correspondents, flattered 
my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I 
had not three farthings' worth of business in the world, 
yet almost every post brought me as many letters at 
if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and 
ledger. 

" My life Cowed on much in the same course till my 
twenty-third year. Vive L' amour, el vive la bagatelle. 
were my sole principles of action, 'i'he addition of 
two more authors to my library gave me great plea- 
sure ; Sleme and M'Kinzie — Tristram Shandy and 
Tlie Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. 
Foesy was still a darling walk for my mind ; but 
it was only indulged in according to the humour of the 
hour. 1 had usually half a dozen or more pieces on 
hand ; took up one or other, as it suited the momentary 
tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered 
on fatigue. Aly passions, when once lighted up, raged 
like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme; and 
then the conning over my verses like a spell, soothed 
all iiito quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days are 
in print except Winter, a Dirge, the elde»t of my 
printed pieces; The Death of Poor Ala'.i, John 
Barteycom, and songs first, second, and third. Song 
second was the ebullition of that passion which ended 
the foremenlioned school-business. 

" My twenty-third year was to me an important 
era. rartly through whim, and partly that I wished 
to set about doing something in life, 1 joined a flax- 
dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his 
trade. This was an unlucky affair. My"*; and 
to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome car- 
ousal to the new year, the shop took fire, and burnt to 
ashes ; and 1 was left like a true poet, not worth a six- 
pence. 

" I was obliged to give up this schents ; 'be clouds of 
misfortune were gathering thick roua:. r.iy father's 
head ; ajid what was worst of all he was visibly far 
gone in a consumption ; and to crown my distresses, 
a belle fille whom 1 adored, and who had pledged her 
soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, 
with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The fin- 
ishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, 
was my constitutional melancholv, being increased to 
such a degree, tliat for three monins 1 was in a state of 
mind scarcely to be envied by the hopelesa wretches 
who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye 
accursed I 

" From this adventure I learned something of a 
town life ; but the principal thing which gave my mind 
a turn, was a friendship 1 formed with a young fellow 
a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfor- 
tuu'i. He was the son of a simple mechanic; but a 
great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his 
patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying 
just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the 
poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where after a va- 
riety of good and ill fortune, a little before 1 was ac- 
quainted with him, he had been set on shore by an 
American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor 
fellow's story without adding, that he is at this time 
master of a large Wesl-lndiaman belonging to Um 
Thames. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



13 



" ni« mind was fen jpiit with indei.enHence, magna 
tilmity, and every manly viilue. 1 loved and adiniied 
iiim to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove lo 
Imitate him. In some measure I succeeded ; 1 liad 
pride before, but lie taught it to flow in proper chan- 
nels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior 
to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than my- 
self, where women was the presiding star ; but he 
spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which 
hitherto 1 had regarded with horror. Here his friend- 
Bhipdid me mischief; and the consequence was that 
I resumed the plough, I wrote the Pott's Welcome.' 
My reading only increased while in this town, by two 
stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinai.d 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. 
Rhyrne, except some religious pieces that are in print, 
I had given up ; but meeting with Ferguson^s Scot- 
tish Poems, I strung anew my wildly soundicg lyre 
with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all 
went among the hell hounds that prowl in the kennel 
of justice; but we made a shift to collect a little mon- 
ey in the family amongst us, with whicli, to keep us to- 
gether, my brother, and I took a neighbouiing farm. 
My brother wanted my hair brained imagination, as 
well as my social and amorous madness, but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification he was Tar my su- 
perior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolution, Come, 
go to, I willbewise! I read farming hooks ; I calcu- 
lated crops; I attended markets; and, in short, in 
spite of the devil, and the world, and thejlesh, I believe 
I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, 
from unfortunately buymg bad seed, the second, from 
\ late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset 
all my wisdom, and 1 returned like the dog to his vom- 
it, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in 
tht mireA 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a 
maker of rhymes. The first of mypoetic offspring that 
saw the light, was a burletque lementalion on a quar- 
rel between two reverend Calvanists, both of them 
dramatis personce in my Holy fair. I had a notion 
myself, that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very 
fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess 
who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty 
clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as 
well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy 
Willie's Prnyer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held seve 
ral meetings to look over the-r spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it might be pointed against profane rliy 
mers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest 
metal. This is the unfortunate story thp.lgave rise to 
my printed poem. The Lament. This was a most 
melancnolv affair, which 1 cannot yet bear to reflect 
on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the 

f)rincipal qualifications for a place among those who 
lave lost the chart, and mistaken the reckonings of 
Rationality.^ I gave up my part of the farm to my 
brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and 
made what little preparation was in my power for 
Jamaica. But belore leaving my native country for 
ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
productions as impartially as was in my power; I 
thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea 
that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it 
should never reach my ears— a poor negro driver ; — or 
perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone 
to the world of spirits ! 1 can truly say, tbm pauvre 
inconnii as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an 
idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in their favour. It 
ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, 
both in a rational and religious point of view, of which 

* Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Child. 

t See Appendix, No. TI. Note B. 

J An explanation of this will be found hereafter. 



see thoi'sands daily guilty, are owing to their ig 
ance of themselves. To know myself I had been all 
along my conslEnt study. I weighed myself alone ; J 
balanced myself with others; 1 watched every means 
of information, to see how much ground I occupied as 
a man and as a poet ; 1 studied assiduously Nature's 
design in my formation— where the lights and shades 
in my character were intended. I was pretty confident 
my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at 
the worst the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the 
voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes 
make me Ibrgcl neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
of which 1 had got subscriptions for about three hun- 
dred and fifty. My vayhy was highly gratified by the 
reception 1 met with Irom the public ; and besides I 
pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty 
pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to 
procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I 
took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail 
from the Clyde ; for, 

•' Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 



" I had been for some days skulking from covert to 
covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-ad- 
vised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the 
law at my heels. 1 had taken the farewell of my few 
friends ; my chest was on the I'oad to Greenock ; I had 
composed tiie last song I should ever measure in Cale- 
donia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, when a 
letter from IJr. Blacklock, to a friend of mine, over- 
threw all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my 
poetic ambition, 'i'he Doctor belonged to a set of 
critics, for whose apjilause I had not dared to hope. 
His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, 
that away I posted for that city, without a single ac- 
quaintance, orsingle letter of introduction. The bane- 
ful star which had so long shed its blasting influence in 
my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; 
and a kind Providence placed me under the patron- 
age of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Gleiv 
cairn. Oublie moi, Grand Vieu, si jamiaje V- 
oublie / 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in 
a new world ; I mingled among many classes of men, 
but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to 
catch the characters and the manners living as they 
rise. Whether 1 have profited, time will show. 



" My most respertfnl compliments to Miss W. Her 
very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at 
present, as my pipseiice is requisite in Edinburgh, and 
I set out tomorrow."* 



At the period of our poet's death, his brother, Gil- 
bert Burns, was ignorant that he had himself written 
the foregoing narrative of his life while in Ayrshire ; 
and having been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop for some 
memoirs of his brother, he complied with her request 
in a letter, from which the following narrative is chief- 
ly extracted. When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw 
the letter of our poet to Or. Moore, he made some 
annotations upon it, which shall be noticed as Wi 
proceed. 

* There are various cop.es of this letter in the au 
thor's hand-writing ; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in the book in which he had copied several ot 
his letters. This has been used for the press, witt 
some omissions, and one slight alteration suggested by 
Gilbert Burns. 



14 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Robert Burns was born on the 2olh day of January 
IIjS, in a sm.iU house about two miles from the town of 
Ayr, and witliin a few hundred yards of Alloway 
church, which his poem of Tarn 'o Shanter has ren- 
dered immortal.* The name which the poet and his 
brother modernized into Burns, was originally Burnes, 
or Burncss. Their father, William Burnes, \^as the 
son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and had received 
the education common in Scotland to persons in his 
ccndltion of life ; he could read and write, and had 
some knowledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen 
into reduced circumstances, he was compelled to leave 
home in his nineteentK year, and turned his steps 
towards the south in quest of a livelihood. The 
BacTie necessity attended his older brother Robert. 
" I have oftcn'heard my father," says Gilbert Burns, 
in his letter to Airs. IJunlop, " describe the anguish 
of mind he felt when they parted on the top of a hill en 
the confines of their native place, each going oft' his 
several way in search of new adventures, and scarcely 
knowing whither he went. My father undertook to 
act as a gardener, and shaped his course to Edin- 
burgh, where he wrought hard when he could get 
worTc, passing through a' variety of dilficulties. Still, 
however, he endeavoured to spare something for the 
support of his aged parents : and I recollect hearing 
him mentiorv his having sent a bank-note for this 
purpose, when money of that kind was so scarce in 
Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew how to em- 
ploy it when it arrived." Frmn Edinburgh, William 
Burnes passed westward into the county of Ayr, where 
be engaged himself as a gardener to the Laird of 
Fairly, with whom he lived two years ; then changing 
hii Rervice for that of Crawford of Doonside. At 
.ea^.h, being desirous of settling in life, betook a per- 
pe'.ual lease of seven acres of land Irom Dr. Camp- 
^■811, physician in Ayr, with the view of commencing 
■urseryman and public gardener ; and having built a 
house upon it with his own hands, married, in De- 
wmbcr 1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, 
who still survives. The first fruit of this marriage 
vas Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on the 
25th of January, 17.39, as has already been mentioned. 
Before William Burnes had made much progress in 
preparing l.is nursery, he was withdrawn from that 
•jt/.erlaking by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased the 
ti'.r.'.e of Doonholm, in the immediate neighbourhood, 
»r,d engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; and 
t'-ij was his situation when our poet was born. 
7 hough in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived in 
ki"! own house, his wife managing her family and her 
i''.;ie dairy, which consisted sometimes of two, some- 
ti.T.es of three milch cows ; and this slate of unambi- 
tious conleiil contin\ied till the year 1766. His son 
Robert was sent by him in his sixih year, to a school 
at Ailoway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a 
person of the name of Campbell ; but this teacher 
5s:rig in a few months appointed master of the work- 
house at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with 
some other heads of families, engaged John Murdoch 
' in his stead. The education of our poet, and of his 
brother Gilbert, was in common; and of theirprofi- 
ciency under Mr. Murdoch, we have the following 
account : " With him we learnt to read English tole- 
rably well,t and to write a little. He taught us, too, 
the English grammar. I was too young to profit much 
from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert made some 
proficiency in it — a circumstance of considerable 
weight in the unfolding ot his genius and character ; 
as he soon became remarkable for the fluency and 
correctness of his expression, and read the few 
books that came in his way with much pleasure and 
improvement ; for even tlien he was a reader when 

* This house is on the right-hand side of the road 
from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow to Port Patrick. When the poet's fa- 
ther afterwards removed to Tarbolton parish, he sold 
his leaseho'd right in this house, and a few acres of 
land adjoining, to the corporation of shoemakers in 
Ayr. It is now a country ale-house. 

'Letter from Gilbert Burnes to Mrs. Dun op 



be c-iuld get a book. Murdoch, whose library at thai 
lime had nr ?reat variety in it, lent him The Life of 
Hannibal, whi,.h was the first book he read (tha 
schoolbook excepted,) and almo.st the only one he had 
an opportunity of reading while he was at school ; for 
ThcLifiof Wallace, which he classes with it in ona 
of his letters to you, he did not see for some years af- 
terwards, w hen he borrowed il from the blacksmith 
who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved himself 
greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, by his intelli- 
gence, industry, and integrity. In consequence of ihia 
with a view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson 
leased him a farm, of which we have the foUuwiug 
account : 

"The farm was upwards of seventy acres* (be 
tween eighty and ninety English statute measure,) 
the rent of which was to be forty pounds annually for the 
first six years, and afterwards forty-five pounds. Aly 
father endeavoured to sell his leasehold property, for 
the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time was 
unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds 
for that purpose. He removed to his new situation at 
VVhiisuniide, 1766. It was, I think, not above two 
years al.er this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, 
left this part of the country ; and there being no 
school near us, and our little services being uselul on 
the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic 
in the winter evenings by candle-light ; and in this 
way ray two eldest sisters got all the education they 
received I remember a circumstance that happened 
at this time, which, though trifling in itself, is fresh in 
my memory, and may serve to illustrate the early 
character of my brother. Murdoch came to spend 
a lughl with us, and to lake his leave when he was 
about logo into Carrick. Hebroughtus, asa present 
and memoriarl of him, a small compendium of English 
Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus A>tdronicus,and 
by way of passing the evening, he began to read the 
play aloud. We were all attention fur some time, till 
presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A 
female in the play (1 have but a confused remem- 
brance of it) had lier hands chopt ofT, and her tongue 
cut out, and then was insultingly desired to call tor 
water to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired he would read no 
more. My father observed, that il we would not hear 
it out, it would be needless to leave the play with us. 
Robert replied, that if it was left he would burn it. 
Aly father was going to chide him for this ungrateful 
return to his tutors kindness ; but Murdoch inter- 
icreU, declaring that he liked to see so much sensibili- 
ty ; and he left The ..^ckool for Love, a comedy 
(translated 1 think from the French,) in its place."! 

' Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of this farm is Mount Oliphant, in Ayr parish. 

t It is to oe remembered that the poet was only nine 
years of age and the relator of this incident under 
eight, at the lime it happened. The effect was very 
natural in children of sensibility at their age. At a 
more mature period of the judgment, such absurd rep- 
resentations are calculated rather to produce disgust 
or laughter, than tears. The sceue to which Gilbert 
Burns alludes, opens thus : 

Titi.s Andronicus, Act If. Scene 5, 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia ravished, 
her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 
Why is this silly play still printed as Shakspeare's, 
against the opinion of all the best critics .'' The bard 
of Avon was guilty of many extravagances, but he 
always performed what he intended to perform. 
That he ever excited in a British mind (for the 
French critics must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, 
where he me.int to have awakened pity or horror, (• 
what will not be inpv.tcd '.c thai mas'.er of the r**- 
sions. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



"Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, "could he 
more retired than our general manner of living at 
Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body but the 
members of our own family. There were no boys of 
our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed 
the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that 
time possessed by shopkeepers, and people ot that 
stamp, who had retired frojn business, or who kept 
their farm in tls --.ountry, at the same time that they 
followed businfg^ ii town. My father was for some 
time almost the only companion we had. lie convers- 
ed familiarly on all subjects with us, as we had been 
men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of tlie farm, to lead the conversa- 
tion to such subjects as might tend to increase our 
knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He bor- 
rowed ^i'almon^s Geographical Grammar for us, and 
endeavoured tft i~.ake us acquainted with the situation 
and history of jVie difl'erenl countries in the world ; 
while from a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us 
the readingof D<-rham' s Physico and Astro-Theology, 
and Ray's Wisdom of God in Ike Creation, to g'we 
us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Ro- 
bert read all these books with an avidity and industry, 
scarcely to'be equalled. My father had been a sub- 
scriber to b'tackhOLse's History of the Bible then 
lately published by .lames Meuross in Kilmarnock : 
from this Robert collected a competent knowledge of 
history ; for no book was so voluminous as to slacken 
his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his research- 
es. A brother of my mother, who had lived with us 
sometime, and had learnt some arithmetic by winter 
evening's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckotier or Trades- 
mart's sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write 
letters. Luckily, in place of The Compli'te Letter- 
Writer, he got by mistake a small collection of letters 
by the most eminent writers, with a few^ sensible di- 
rections for a'taining an easy epistolary style. This 
book was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in letter-wri- 
ting, while it furnished him with models of some of the 
first writers in our language. 

" My brother was about thirleen or fourteen, when 
my father, regretting that we wrote so ill, sent us, 
week about during a summer quarter, to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, which, though between two and 
three miles distance, was the nearest to us, that we 
•might have an opportunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
procured us the reading of two volumes of Richard- 
son's Pamla, which was the first novel we read, and 
Ihe only part of Richardson's works my brother was 
acquainted with till towards the period of his com- 
mencing author. Till that time too he remained un- 
acquainted with Fielding, with Smollet, (two volumes 
of Ferdinand. Count Fathom, and two volumes of 
Peregrine Pzci/e excepted,) with Hume, with Rob- 
ertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect indeed my father borrowed 
a volume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of 
Bourtreehill's gardener. It treated of the reign of 
James the First, and his unfortunate son, Charles, but 
I do not know who was the author ; all that I remem 
ber of it is something of Charles's conversation with 
his children. About this time Murdoch, our former 
teacher, after having been in different places in the 
country, and having taught a school some time in 
Dumfries, came to be the established teacher of the 
English language in Ayr, a circumstance of considera- 
ble consequence to us. The remembrance of my 
father's former fiiendship, and his attachment to my 
brother, made him do every thing in his power for our 
improvement. He sent us 1 ope's works, and some 
other poetry, the first that we had an opportunity of 
reading, excepting what is contained in The English 
Colleclioii, and in the volume of The Edinbur^ih Mag 
azine for 1772; excepting also thos- exciUent new 
tongs that are hawked about the country in baskets, 
or exposed on stalls in the streets. 

"The summer after we had been at Dalrymple 
school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his 
Knglish grammar, with his former teacher. He had 
been there only one we«k, when he was obliged lo le- 



turn to assist at the harvest. 'When the harvest was 
over, he went back to school, where he remained two 
weeks ; and this completes the account of his school ed- 
ucation, excepting one summer quarter, some time af- 
terwards, that he attended the parish school of Kirk- 
OswaUl, (where he lived with a brother of my moth- 
er's,) to learn surveying. 

'' During the two last weeks that he was with Mur- 
doch, he himself was engaged in learning French, and 
he communicated the instructions he received to my 
brother, who, when he returned, brought home with 
him a French dictionaiy ajid grammar, and the Ad- 
ventures of Ttlemaihns in the original. In a little 
while, by the aisistance of these books, he had acquir- 
ed such a knowledge of the language, as to read and 
understand any French author in prose. This wag 
considered as a sort of prodigy, and through the medi- 
um of Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance of 
several lads in Ayr, who were at that time gabbling 
French, and the notice of some families, particularly 
that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of Flench 
was a recommendation. 

" Observing the facility with which he had acquired 
the French language, Mr. Robinson the established 
writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. Murdoch's particular 
friend, having himself acquired a considerable know- 
ledge of the Latin language by his own industry with- 
out ever having learnt it at school, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him every assist- 
ance in his power. Agreeably to this advise, he pur- 
chased The Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, but find- 
ing this study dry and uninteresting; it was quickly 
laid aside. He frequently returned to his iJi/dtwicTiig 
on any little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his love afi'airs ; but the Latin seldom predomin- 
ated more than a day or two at a time, or a week 
at most. Observing himself the ridicule that would 
attach to this sort of conduct if it were known, he 
made two or three humorous stanzas on the sub- 
ject, which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'll try my Latin again." 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
meansof my brother's improvement. Worthy man ; 
though foreign to my present purpose, 1 cannot take 
leave of him without tracinghis future history. He 
continued forsome years a res|)ected and useful teach- 
er at Ayr, till one evening that he had been overtaken 
in liquor, he happened to speak somewhat disrespect- 
fully of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid him that attention to which he thought him- 
self entitled. Jn Ayr he might as well have spoken 
blasi>hemy. He found it jiroper togive up his appoint- 
ment. He went to London, where he still lives, a 
private teacher of French. He has been a consid- 
erable time married, and keeps a shop of stationary 



"The father of Dr. Patterson, now physician of 
Ayr, was, 1 believe a native of Aberdeenshire, and 
was one of the established teachers in Ayr, when my 
father settled in the neighbourhood. He early recog- 
nized my father as a fellow native of the north of Scot- 
land, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted be 
tween them during Mr. Patterson's lift. After his 
death, his widow, who was a very genteel woman, and 
of great worth, delighted in doing what she thought 
ner husband would have wished to have done, andas- 
siduously keep up her attentions to alibis acquaint- 
ance. She kept alive the intimacy with our family, 
by frequently inviting my father and mothar to her 
house on Sundays, when she met them at church. 

" When she came to know my brother's pas.sion for 
books, she kindly offered us the use of her husband's 
library, and from her we got the Spectator, Pope's 
Translation of Homer, and several other books thai 
were of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my 
father pos.tessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost ;ha 
very poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give, thun that, not. 
withstanding the extraordinary rise in the value •• 
lands in Scotland, it wag &fl«r a considerabls »\l 



16 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



laid out in improring it by the proprietor, let a few 
years ago five pound* per annum lower than the rent 
paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, 
ill consequence of this, soon came into dilficulties, 
which were increased by llie loss of several of his cat 
tie by accident and disease. To the butietings of mis 
fortune, we could only oppose hard labour, and the 
most rigid economy. We lived very sparing. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the 
house, while all the members of the family exerted 
themselves to the utmost of their strength, and rather 
beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, al 
the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop ol 
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under 
these str.iita and difficulties, was very great. To think 
of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty,) 
broken down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children and in a de- 
clining state of circumstances, these reflections pro- 
duced in ray brother's mind and mine sensations of the 
deepest distress. 1 doubt not but the hard labour and 
Borrow of this period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was so often afflicted tlirough his whole life af- 
terwards. At this time he was almost constantly af- 
flicted in the evenings with a dull head-ache, which at 
a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpi- 
tation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and 
suffocation in his bed in the night-time. 

"By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a 
right to throw it up, itlie thought proper, at the end of 
every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in a 
better farm at the end of the first six years, but failing 
in that attempt, he continued where he was for six 
years more, lie then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the 

parish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in 

Ayr, and now (1797,) a merchant in Liverpool. He 
removed to this farm on Whitsunday, 1777, and pos- 
sessed it only seven years. No writing had ever been 
made out of the conditions of the lease; a misunder- 
standing took place respecting them ; the subjects in 
dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decis- 
ion involved my father's affairs in ruin. He lived to 
know of this decision, but not to see any execution in 
consequence of it. He died on the I3th of February, 
1734. ■" 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (ex- 
tending from the seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of 
my brother's age,) were not marked by much literary 
iraptoveraent; but during this time, the foundation 
was laid of certain habits in my brother's character, 
which afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and envy have taken dtliglil to enlarge 
on. Though when young he was bashful and awk- 
ward in his intercourse with women, yet when he ap- 
proached manhood, his attachment to their society be- 
came very strong, and he was constantly the victim of 
some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated 
Sappho. 1 never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, 
and died away; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in 
real life. He had always a particular jealousy of peo- 
ple who were richer than himself, or who had niore 
consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled 
on peisons of this description. When he selected any 
one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom 
he should pay his particular attention, she was in- 
stantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out 
ofa plenlitul store of his own imagination ; and there 
was often a great dissimilitude between his fair capti- 
vator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when it. vested with the attributes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections but as 
Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madam de L — 
at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza 
were upon him, so Robert was frequently encounter- 
ing other attniclious, which formed so many under- 
plots in the drama of his love. As these connexions 
were governed by thu strictest rulea of virtue auJ 



■nodesty (from which he never deviated till he reached 
his !^3d year,) he became anxious to be in a siluatiua 
to marry, 'i'his was nut IiKeiy lo be soon the case 
while he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sura of money he had no probability of be- 
ing master of lor a great while. He began, therefore, 
to think of trying some other line of life. He and J had 
forseveral years taken land ofmy father for the purpses 
of raising flax on our own account. In the course of 
selling it, Kobert began to think of turning flax-dresser, 
both as being suitable to his grand view of setthng iu 
life, and as subservient to the flax raising. He 
accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dress- 
er in Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor inclina- 
tion, in Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance 
ofa freer manner of thinking and living than he had 
been used to. whose society prepared him for over- 
leaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end of the period under 
review (in his 24th year,) and soon after his father's 
death, he was furnished with the subject of his epistle 
to John Rankin. During this period also, he became 
a freemason, which was his first introduction to the 
life of a boon companion. Yet, notwithstanding these 
circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his histori- 
ans,) 1 do not recollect, during these seven years, nor 
till towards the enil ol his commencing author (when his 
growing celebrity occasioned his being often in compa- 
ny,) lo have ever seen him intoxicated ; nor was he at 
all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the general 
sobriety of his conduct need not be required than what 
I am about to give. During the whole of the time we 
lived in the farm of Lochlea with my father, he allow- 
ed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
gave to other labourers, as a part of which, every ar- 
ticle of our clothing manufactured in the family was 
regularly accounted for. When my father's affairs 
drew near a crisis, Robert and 1 took the farm of Moss- 
giel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent of 90/. per an- 
num (the farm on which I live at present,) from Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton, as a asylum for the family in case of 
the worst. It was stocked by the property and indi- 
vidual savings of the whole family, and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the family was 
allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on 
the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was 
seven pounds per annum each. And during the whole 
time this family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the preceeding period at Lochlea, liis * 
expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender 
income. As I was entrusted with the keeping of th« 
family accounts, it is not possible that there can be any 
fallacy in this statement in my brother's favour. His 
temperance and frugality were everything that couid 
be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on 
a cold wet bottom. The first four years that we were 
on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very 
late. Our crops in consequence were very unprofitn- 
ble ; and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and 
economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our 
bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of our 
original stock. It was during these four years that 
Robert formed his connexion with Jean Armour, after- 
wards Mrs. Burns, 'i'liis connexion cou/d no lon^iT 
be concealed, about this time we came to a final deter- 
mination 10 quit the farm. Robert durst not engage 
with his family in his poor unsettled state, but was 
anxious to shield his partner, by every means in his 
power, from the consequence of their imprudence. It 
was agi-eed therefore between them, that they should 
make a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and pri- 
vate mariiage; and that he should go to Jamaica to 
push his fortune! and that she should remain with her 
father till it might please irovidence to put the means 
of supporting a family in his power. 

"Mrs. Burns was a great favorite of her father's. 
The intimation of a marriage was the first suggestion he 
received of her real situation. He was in the greatest 
distress and fainted away. The mariage did not ap* 
pear to make the matter better. A husband in Jamai- 
sa appeared lo hira aud hi* wile Utile belter Uiui uoa« 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



17 



and an effectual bar to any other prospects of a settle- 
ment in life that their daughter might have. They 
therefore expressed a wish to her, that the written 
papera which respected the marriage should be cancel- 
led, and thus the marriage rendered void. In her me- 
lancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at having 
brought such heavy affliction on parents that loved her 
Bo tenderly, and submitted to their entreaties. Their 
wish was mentisned to Robert. He felt the deepest 
anguish of mind. He ollered to stay at home and pro- 
vide lor hia wife and family in the best manner that his 
daily laOours could provide for them ; that being the 
ojily means in his power. Even this otier they did not 
approve of, for humble as Miss Armour's situation was, 
and great though her imprudence had been, she still, 
in tlie eyes of her p»j-tial parents, might look to a bet 
terconnexion than that with my friendless and unhap- 
py brother, at that time without house or abiding 
place. Robert at length consented to their wishes : 
but his feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- 
tracting nature : and the impression of sorrow was not 
effaced, till by a regular marriage they wereiudissolu- 
bly united. In the slate of mind which this separation 
produced , he wished to leave the country as soon as po3> 
sible, and agreed with Dr. Duuglas to go out to Jamai- 
ca as an assistant overseer ; or, as I believe it is called 
a book keeper, on his estate. As he had not sufficient 
money to pay his passage, and the vessel in wh.ch 
Dr. Douglas was to procure a passage for him was not 
expected to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised 
him to publish his poems in the mean time by subscrip- 
tion, as a likely way of getting a little money, to pro- 
vide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. 
Agreeably to this advice, subscription bills were print- 
ed immediately, and the printing was commenced at 
Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the same 
time for his voyage. The reception, however which 
his poems met with in the world, and the friends they 
procured him, made him change his resolution of 
going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go Kdin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his return, in 
happier circumstances, he renewed his connexion with 
Mrs. Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union for 
life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give you a 
simple narrative of the leading circumstances in my 
brother's early life. The remaining part he spent in 
Kilmburgh, or in Dumfrieshire, and its incidents are 
as well known to you as to me. His genius have pro- 
cured him your patronage and friendship, this gave 
rise to the correspondence between you, in which, 
I believe, his sentiments were delivered with the 
most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and 
U'hich only terminated with the lastdays of his lite." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a com- 
mentary on the preceeding sketch of our poets life by 
himself. It will be seen that the distraction of mind 
■which he mentions (/>, 13.) arose from the distress and 
sorrow in which he had involved his future wife. The 
whole circumstances attending this connexion are cer- 
tainly of a very singular nature." 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing nar- 
rative, how much the children of William Burnes were 
indebted to their father, who v;as certainly a man 
of uncommon talents : though it does not appear that 
he posesssed any portion of that vivid imagination for 
■which the subjects of these memoirs was iholinguished. 
In page 13, it is observed by our poet, that hFs father 
had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, 
and that his attending one of these brought on him his 
displeasure, and even dislike. On this observation 

* In page 13, the poet mentions his—" skulking from 
covert to covert, under the terror of a jail." The 
" pack of the law" was " uncoupled at his heels," to 
oblige him to find security for the maintenance of his 
twin children, whom he was not perrow. tf iggitt 
mate by a marriage with thair mother 



Gilbert has mads the following remark, which seems 
entitled to implicit credit :— " I wonder how Robert 
could attribute to our father that lasting resentment of 
his going to a dancing school against his will, of which 
he was incapable. 1 believe the truth was, that he, 
about this time began to see the dangerous impetuosity 
ot my brother's passions as well as his not being ame- 
nable to counsel, which often irritated my father; an<» 
which he would naturally think a dancing school was 
not hKely to correct. But he was proud of Robert'* 



genius, which he bestowed 



more expense in cultivating 



than on the rest of the family, in the instances of send 
ing to Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools ; and he wag 
grtatly delighted with his warmth of heart, and bis 
conversational powers. He had indeed that dislike of 
daiicin>;-?chools which Robert mentions: but so far 
overcame it during Robert's first month of attendance, 
that he allowed all the rest of the family that were fit 
for It to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time dis- 
tractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore,our poet describ- 
ed his ancestors as " renting lands of the noble Keiths 
of Manschal, and as having had the honour of sharing 
thevi fate." " 1 do not>" continues he, "use the 
word honour with any reference to political principles ; 
loi/al and disloyal, \ take to be merely relative terms, 
in that ancient and formidable court, known in this 
country by the name of Club-law, where the right is 
always with the strongest. But those who dare wel- 
come ruin, and shake hands with infamy, for what 
they sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, or 
their king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shakespeare 
ol iJrutus and Cassius, honourable men. I mention 
this circumstance because it threw my father on the 
world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing the let- 
ter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns ; and it would have 
been unnecessary to have noticed it on the present oc- 
casion, had not several manuscript copies of that letter 
been in circulation. " 1 do not know," observes Gil- 
bert Burns, "how my brother could be misled in the 
account he has given of the Jacobit=sm of his ancestors. 
— 1 believe the earl Marischal forfeited his title and 
estate in 1715, before my father was born ; and among 
a collection of parish certificates in his possession, 1 
have read one, stating that the bearer had no concern 
in ihe late wicked r^b,liion." On the information of 
one, who knew William Burnes soon after he arrived 
in the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a re- 
port did prevail, that he had taken the field with the 
young Chevalier; a report which the certificate men- 
tioned by his son was, perhaps, intended to counteract. 
Strangers from the 1101 th, settling in the low country 
ofScotland, were in those days liable to suspicions of 
having been, in the familiar phrase of the country, 
"Out ill the for(y-five," (1745) especially when they 
had any stateliness or reserve about them, as was the 
case with William Burnes. It may easily be conceiv- 
ed, that ourpoet would cherish the belief of his father's 
having been engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince 
Charles Edward. The generous attachment, the he- 
roic valour, and the final misfortunes of the adherents 
of the house of Stewart, touched with sympathy his 
youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his original 
political opinions.* 

* There is another observation of Gilbert Bums on 
his brother's narrative, in which some persons will be 
interested. It refers to where the the poet speaks of 
his youthful friends. "My brother," says Gilbert 
Burns, " seems to set off his early companions In too 
consequential a manner. The principal acquaintances 
we iiad in Ayr, while boys, were foiu-sons of Mr. An- 
drew M'Culloch, a distant relation of my mother's, 
who kept a tea shop, and had made a little money in 
the contraband trade very common at that time. He 
died while the boys were young, and my father was 
nominated one of the tutors. The two eldest were 
'bred shopkeepers, the third a surgeon, and ffct 



18 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Th« falher of our poet it d«t»crU>e<l by one who know of a little strnw, liternlly n tal>ernnrle o! clay. In thU 



him lowmxls llie Utter cuA of liis life, n» ubove tl 
Rion stului-t', thin and ht'nC witli Inbxiir. Iliit counl<i- 
liniice Wtts serious hikI expressive, ami ilie scanty loika 
on his htiHit wore gray, tie was of a religious turn of 
niinil, and, as is iist'ml nnioiigthe Scottish peasantry, 
a xooti deal conversant in »i)ecul»tive theology. Tlif re 
is :ii liill>ert'a liands a little manual of religious belief, 
ia ^het'oini of n dialosne between a father and his son, 
composed hy him lor iho use ol his children, in which 
the benevolence of his heart seems to have led liini to 
•ofieii the riffid Calvinism of the Scottish Church, into 
suinelhing approaching to Ar:niniaiiisin. lie was a 
devout man, and in the practice of calling liia family 
together to join in prayer, U is known ihut the exqui- 
site piclure, drawn in star.tas xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. 
mid xviii. of the Cottr's Sntuitlat/ Nig^l, represents 
VVilliuiu Uurues and bis family ai iheir evenius devo- 
tions. 

Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited 
the cottage of William Bunies, ami parlicdarly of the 
father <■>••*• n.ily, the reader will ^)erbaps bewiUin? 
lo lij«,..„ .w oome father account. V\ hat follows is giv- 
en by one already mentioned with so nuicli honour in 
the narrative of (lilbcrt Uunis, Mr. Muulocli, the pre- 
ceptor of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph I'ooper 
Walker, Kso. of Dublin, author of the i//»-foruM/ 
AJemoirs of the Irish Banis, and the Hisloricul Me- 
pwiis oj'lht [taiiaii 'jyageiiy, thus expresses bim- 
•olf: 

" SIR, — I was lately favoured with a letter from our 
worthy friend, the Kev. Win. Adail^, in winch he re- 
tjuested mo to communicate lo you whatever particu- 
lars I could recollect concerning Kobert Uurns, the -Ayr- 
shire poet. My business being nt present multifarious 
and harrassing, my attention is consequently so much 
divided, and I am so little in the Imbil of expressing my 
thoughts oil paper, that at this distance oftinie I cnn 
give but a very imperfect sketch i.f the eai ly part of the 
lite of that extraordinary genius, w'di wiiich alouc 
am acquainted. 

William Burne*, the father of .ne poet, was born in 
the shire of Kmcurden, and breu a gardener. lie had 
been settled in .Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I 
knew him, and had been in the service of Mr. C."i-aw- 
ford.of Doonside. lie wasallorwards employed as a 
eai-ilener and overseer by I'rovost Ferguson of Doon- 
holm, in the parish of Alloway, which is now united 
with that of Ayr. In this parish, on the road side, ti 
Scotch mile and a half I'ruin the town of Ayr, and half 
a mile from the bridge of Doon, William" Uuriies took 
a piece of land, consist ing«f about seven acres; part 
of which he laid out in gaiden ground, and part ot 
which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still continuing in 
the employ of I'rovost Fergiisou. Upon this little farm 
•was erected an humble dwelling, of which William 
Burues was the architect. U was, with the exception 

youngest, the only surviving one, was bred in a count- 
ing-house in Glasgow, where be is now a respectable 
merchant. I believe all these boys went to the West 
Indies. Then there were two sons of Dr. Malcolm, 
whom I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. 
The eldest, a very worthy young man, went to the 
East Indies, where he had a commission in the army ; 
he is the person whose heart my brother says the A/u- 
nv Befun scenes could not corrupt. The other by 
the interest of Lady Wallace, got an ensigncy in a re- 
giment raised by the Duke of Hamilton, during the 
American war. I believe neither of them are now 
(1797) alive. We also knew the present Dr. Katerson 
of Ayr, and a younger brother of his now in Jamaica> 
who were much younger than us. I had almost for- 
got lo mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a little 
older than my brother, and with whom we had a lon- 
ger and closer intimacy than with any of the others, 
vhich liid not, however, continue in after UiV." 



mean collage, of which 1 myself was at times an in- 
bitaiit, I really believe there dwell a larger portion 
content than in any pal.tce in Kiirope. The Col- 
i-'s lii'a.'i.n/ny Nishi will give some idea of the lem- 

per and manners that prevailed there.' 

In 1765, about the mid.lle of March, Mr. W. 
nnrnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school where I 
was improving in writing, under my good Iriend Mr. 
liobiiison, desiring that I would come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, a,id bring my writing book with 
me. This was iniiiuMliately complied with. llavin([ 
examined niv writing, be was pleased with it— (you 
will readily allow be Was not difficult,) and told ma 
that he had received very satisfactory itiformation of 
Mr. Teiinaiit, the master of the Knglish school, con- 
cerning my improvement in Knglish, and his method 
of teaching. In the month of May following, I wae 
engaged by Mr. Uurnes. and four of his neighbours, to 
leuch, and acconlmgly began to teach the little school 
at Alloway, which was situated a lew yards from the 
argillaceous fabric above mentioned. My five employ- 
ers iiiulertook to board me by turns, and lo makeup a 
ceriain salary, at the end of th-; year, provided my 
quarterly puymenls from the dilferent pupils did not 
uinounl lo that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six 
and seven years of age ; his preceptor about eighteen. 
Kobert, aiid his younger biother, Ciilbert, had been 
grounded a little in Knglish before they were pnl un- 
der my care. They both made a rapid progress in 
reading, and a lolernble progress in writing. In read- 
ing, dividmg words into syllables by rule, spelling with- 
out book, parsing sentences, iVc. Robert and Ctilberl 
were generally ii the upper end of the class, even when 
ranged with boys by far their seniors. The books most 
commonly u?ed in the school weie the S/telling Hook, 
the Neic ]\slaiHenl, the ISihIe, AJanon't Collection of 
vrose and verse, .xml J-'ts/ier's English Grainmnr. 
iM.».. ,..^..,..,il•...l .., ....,„,.>_.. j|,^ hymus, and other po- 
vitli uncommon facility. Tliii 
iig lo the method pursued by 
nslruciiiiglhem, which was to 
acquainted with the meaning 
Mi'eiice thai was lo be commil- 



rhey commitleit to 
cms of that collectio 
faciUty was partly 
their lather and me 
make them thurougli 
of every word in 



ted lo memory, Uy the by, this may be easier done, 
and at an earlicr'period than is generally thought. 
As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them to 
turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to 
substiliite synonymous expres.sions for poetical word* 
andtosupplv all the ellipses. These, you know, arc 
the means ot" knowing that the pupil understands hi* 
author. These are excellent helps lo the arrangment 
of words in sentences, as well as to a variety of expree 
sioii. 

'' Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a more 
lively imagination, and to be more of the wit than Ro- 
bert. I atirmpledto teach them a little church-mu- 
sic : here lliev were left far behind by all the rest of 
the school, liobert's ear, in particular, was remarka- 
bly dull, and his voice unlunahle. It was long ibeforo 
1 could get them to distinguish one tune from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, and ex- 
pressive, of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful 
mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, icith thee I inenn to 
live ; and certainly, if any person knew the two boys, 
hail been asked which of them was most likely locoiirt 
the muses, he would surely never have guessed that 
Robert had a Dropeiisity of that kiiid- 

" In mt year 1789, Mr. Burnes quitted his mud 
edif.ve, and took possession oi a farm (Mount Oll- 
pnant) of his own improving, while in the service ol 
Trovost Ferguson. This farm being at a considera- 
ble distance from the school, the boys could not at- 
tend regularly ; and some changes taking place among 
the other supporters of the st-liool, I left it, having 
continued to conduct it for nearly two years and » 
half. 

" In the reor 177?, Iwas appointed (being one of At*' 
candidates who were< lamiued) lo teach the Englisb 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



19 



icnooi ai Ayr; and In 1T73, Robert Burni came to 
board and lodge willi me, for the pur|iosc of revming 
the Kiiyhnh grammar, &c. that he might he heller 
qiialjlied to iiiHUuct hia brolhurt and Rinters at home, 
lie was now with me day and night in school, at all 
mc-a;«, and in all my walks. At Ihe end of one week, 1 
told him, that a« he wan now preliy muchmaslerof 
the parta of speech, &c. I should like to leach him 
■oirielhing of F'reiich pronunciation ; that when Ic 
should meet wiih tiic name of a French town, ship, 
olticer, or tije like, in the newspapers, he might be ahle 
to pronounce it something like a French worrl. Itobert 
was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we 
R'.tacked the French with great courage. 

" Now there was liltle else to be heard but the de- 
cl'jiismn of nouni, the conjuncl'on of verbs, ^c. When 
walking together, and even at meals, I was conslanlly 
ti-lling him tlie names of diti'erent objects as they pre- 
senied themselves, in French; so thai he was hourly 
laying in a stock of words, and someliines liule 
phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, 
and 1 in teaching, that il was diflicidl to say which of 
Ihe iwo was mo«t zealous in the business ; and about 
lie end ofthe second week of our study of the French, 
we began to rcid a little ofihe AdocnluTea of Telema- 
ckui, ill Feneloii's own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began to 
whilcn, when liobert was summoned lo relinquish the 
the pleasing scenes that surrounded the grotlo of Ca- 
lypso ; and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory by sig- 
nalizing himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did ; 
for allhough bul about fifteen, I wag told that he per- 
formed the Work of a man. 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and 
conse'pienlly agreeable companion, al the end of three 
weeks, one ofVhich was spent entirely in the study of 
Kiiglish, and the other two chiefly in that of French. 
1 ihd not, however, lose sight of him ; but was a fre- 
quent visitant al his father's house, when I had my 
halt holiday ; and very often went, accompanied with 
one or two persons more intelligent than myself, that 
eiiud William IJurnes mighl enjoy a menial feast. — 
riieii the labouriugoar wa3 shifted '.o some other hand. 
'I' he Cither and the son sat down with iia, when we 
enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, seii- 
siljle remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, 
were so nicely blenrled as to render il palatable to all 
pdrtieu. Ruben had a Iiundred questions lo atk me 
anont the French, &c. ; and the father, who had al 
ways rational information in view, had slill some 
question to propone to my more learned friends, upon 
moral and natural philosophy, or some au:h vnteresting 
■ object. Mrs. Uurnes too was of the party ai much as 
possible ; 

' But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse.' — 

and particularly that of her husband. At all times, 
and in all companies, she listened to him with a more 
marked atlenlion than to any body else. When under 
the necessity of being absent while he was B|)eaking, 
she seemed lo regrci, as a real loss, that she had miss- 
ed whal the good man had said. This worthy woman. 
Agues Brown, ha<l the most thorough esteem for her 
husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by no 
means wonder thalsbe highly esteemed him ; for 1 my- 
self have always consiilered William iiiirnes as by far 
the best of the human race thai ever 1 had the pleasure 
of being acquaiiiied with — and many a worthy charac- 
ter I have known. I can cheerfully join with Robert 
in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold 
•miih,) 

" And even his failings Ican'd to virtue's side." 

" lie was an excellent husband, if I may judge fron 
his asaidiious atlenlion in the ease and coniforl of his 
worthy partner, and Iruin her atlecliouate behaviour to 



him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties 
of a mother. 

" Me was a tender and affectionate father ; he took 
pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; 
not in driving ihein as some parents do, to the perform- 
ance of duties lo which they ihcmselves are averse, fie 
look care lo find fault bul very seldom ; and iherefore, 
when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind 
ol reverenlial awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; 
a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the tawz, 
even on the skirt of ihe coat, gave heartfelt pain, pro- 
duced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of 
tears, 

" fie had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will 
of those that were labourers under him. 1 think I 
never saw him angry bui twice ; ihe one time il was 
with the loreman of the band, for not reaping Ihe tielc* 
as he was desired ; and the other time, il was with an 
old man for using smuiiy inuendoes and double en'en- 
Urns. Were every toni mouthed old man to receive a 
seasonable check in this way, it would be lo the advan. 
tage of the rising generation. As he was at no time 
overbearing to inferiors, he was equally iiicapal/lc of 
that passive, piiilul, paliry spirit, that induces some 
people to /ce J} booing nrul booing in the jiresence of a 
great man. He always treated superiors with a be- 
coming respect: but he never gave the smallest en. 
coiiragtmenl lo aristocralical arrogance. But 1 must 
not pretend to give you a description of all the manly 
qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the 
venerable William Burnes. Time would fail me. I 
shall only add, that he carefully practiced every known 
duly, and avoided every thing that was criminal ; or, 
in the apostle's words. Herein did he exercise himself 
in living a life void of offence towards God and to- 
wards men. tj for a world of men of such dispositions ! 
We should then have no wars. 1 have often wished, 
for the good of mankind, that il were as customary to 
honour and perpetuate the memory of those who excel 
in moral rectitude, as ii is to extol whal are called he- 
roic actions : then would the mausoleum of the friend 
of my youth overtop and surpass most of the monu- 
ments I see in Westminster Abbey. 

"Although I cannot do justice to the character of 
this worthy man, yet you will [jerccive from ihese fevr 
particulars, whal kind of person had the jirincipal 
education of ourpocl. He spoke the Knglish language 
with more propriety (both wiih respect to diciion and 
proiiuncialion,) than any man I ever knew wiih no 
gi eater advantages. This had ave.ygood effect on 
the boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, much 
sooner than their neighbours. I do not recollect any 
of their contemporaries, al my liltie seminary, who af- 
terwards made any great figure, as literary characters, 
except IJr. Teiinant, who was chajilain to Colonel 
Fullarlon's regiment, and who is now in the Ka»l In- 
dies. He is a man ofgeniusandlearning ; yet affable, 
and free from pedantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had 
over-rated Mount Oliphant, and that he could not 
rear his numerous family upon it. After being there 
some years, he removed to Lochlea, in the parish of 
Tarbolion, where, 1 believe, Robert wrote most of his 
poems. 

" But here. Sir, you will permit me to pause. I can 
tell you but little more relative lo our poet. I shall, 
however, in my next, send you a copy of one of his let- 
ters to me, about the year 1783. I received one since, 
but it is miilaid. I lease remember me, in the h'.sX 
manner, to my wort hy friend Mr. Adair, when you see 
him, or write to fiim. 

''Hart street, liloomshurySquare, 
London, I-^eb.2Z,n99.'' 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was wntten at a 
time when he was ignorant oflhe exisience of the pre- 
ceding narrative of his brother, so this letter of Mr. 
Munloch was writtpii without his having any know- 
ledge that either of bis pupils had been emjjloyed <m 
, the same subject. The three relations serve, tber«< 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



fore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate each 
other. Thougli the information ihey convey miglil 
have been presented within a shorter compass, by re- 
ducing the whole into one unbroken narrative, it is 
scarcely to be doubled, that the intelligent reader 
will be I'ar more gratified by a sight of these original 
ducuments themselves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it appears in- 
deed that our poet had great advantages ; but his op- 
portunities of information at school were more limited 
as to lime than they usually are among his country- 
iB-sn in his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, and the poetical talent which he ex- 
erted, under the pressure of early and incessant 
toil, and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, 
testify at once the extraordinary force and activity of 
bis mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to five 
feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that in- 
dicate agility as well as strength. In the various la- 
bours of the farm he excelled all Ins competitors. Gil- 
bert Burns declares that in mowing, the exercise that 
tires all the muscles most severely, Robert was the 
only man, that at the end of a summer's day he was 
ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though 
ourpoet gave the powers of his body to the labours of 
the farm, be rel'used to bestow on them bis thoughts or 
his cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance 
passed through the sward, or the grass fell under the 
sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of his 
country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or 
wrapt in the allusions of Fancy, as her enchantments 
rose on his view. Happi.y the Sunday is yet a Sab- 
bath, on wliich man and beast rest from their labours. 
On this day, therefore, Burns could indulge in a free 
intercourse with the charms of nature. It was his de- 
light to wander alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of 
the blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But 
still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, 
in walking on the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy 
winter day, and hearing the storm rave among the 
trees ; and more elevated still his delight, to ascend 
some eminence during the agitations of nature ; to 
•tride along its summit, while the lightning flashed 
around him ; and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, 
to apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such situa- 
tions he declares most favourable to devotion. — " Rapt 
in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who 
tDc.lks on the wings of the winds!" If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, this 
might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiar- 
ly awake to everj impression of beauty and sublimity ; 
but, with the higher order of poets, the beautiful is less 
attractive than the sublime. 

The gayety of many o. Burns' writings, and the 
lively, and even cheerful colouring with which he Las 
portrayed his own character, may lead some perbons 
to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him 
towards the end of his days was not an original part 
of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, that 
this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the progress 
of his lile ; but, independent of his own and of his 
brother's testimony, evidence is to be found among his 
papers, that he was subject very early to those de- 
pressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly 
separate from the sensibility of genius, but which in 
him rose to an uncommon degree. The following 
letter addressed to his father, will serve as a proof 
of this observation. It was written at the time when 
be was learning the business of a flax-dresser, and is 
dated, 

Irvine, December 27, 1731. 
" Honoured Sir — I have purposely delayed writing, 
in tht hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
you on New-Year's day ; but work comes so hard up- 
on us, that I do not choose to be absent on that ac- 
count, as well as for some other little reasons, which 1 
snail tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the 
•arae as when you were here, only my sleep is a little 
sounder ; and, on the whole, I am rather better than 
«>therwi8e, though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
Weakaess of toy serves has so debihtated my mind,] 



that 1 dare neither review past wants, nor look (or. 

ward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturba- 
tion in my breast, produces most unhappy cU'ects on 
my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, 1 glimmer 
into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only 
pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and 
forwards in a moral and religious way. 1 am trans- 
ported at the thought, that ere long, very soon, I shall 
bid au eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasi- 
ness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for 1 as- 
sure you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if 1 do not 
very much deceive myself, 1 could couieniedly and 
gladly resign it, 

♦ The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at borne, 
Rests and expatiates in a hfe to come.' 

_"It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 
loth, I6th, and I7th verses of the 7th chapter of Reve- 
lations, than with any ten times as many verses in 
the whole Bible, and would not exchange the nobia 
enthusiasm with which they inspise me, for all that 
this world has to otler.* As lor this world, I despair 
of ever making a figure in it. 1 am not forn.ed for the 
busile ol the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such scenes. 
Indeed 1 am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of 
this life. 1 foresee that poverty and obscurity prob- 
ably await me. I am in some measure prepared, 
and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just 
lime and paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, 
which were too much neglected at the time of giving 
them, but which, 1 hope, have been remembered ere 
it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to 
my mother, and my cumphmeuls to Mr. and Mrs. 
Aluir ; and with wishing you a merry New-year's- 
day, I shall conclude. 1 am, honoured Sir, Your 
dutiful sou, 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

" P.S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to 
borrow, till 1 gel more." 

This letter, written several years before the publica- 
tion of his poems, when his name was as obscure as his 
condition was humble, displays the philosophic melan- 
choly which so generally forms the poetical tempera- 
ment, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which 
indicates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, 
Burns, at this time possessed a single room for his 
lodging, rented perhaps at the rale of a shilling a week. 
He passed his days in constant labour as a flax-tlress. 
er, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, seul to 
hi/" from his father's family. The store of this ho. n- 
blt, Uiough wholesome I'utriment, it appears was near- 
ly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he 
should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situation, 
his active imagination had formed to itself pictures of 
eminence and disiiaction. His despair of making a 
figure in the world, shows how ardently he wished for 
honourable fame ; and his contempt of life founded on 
despair, is the genuine expression of a youthful and 
generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of 
sutierjng, the imagination of Burns, naturally passed 
the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested 
on those beautU'ul representations of a better world, 

* The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as fol- 
lows : 

15. Therefore are they before the throne of God, 
and serve him day and night in his temple ; and he that 
sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

16. They shall hunger no more, nilher thirst any 
more ; neither shall the sun light on them, nor anjf 
heat. 

17. J^or the Lamb teMch is in the midst of the 
thronf, shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living 
fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all 
tears from their tyes. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



vfaere there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow ; 
and where happiness shall be in proportion lo the 
capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at variance with 
social enjoyments. Those who have studied the affin- 
ities of mind, Itnow that a melancholy of this descrip- 
tion, after a while, seeks relief in the end?arment3 of 
society, and that it has no distant connexion with the 
iinw of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of 
mirth. It was a few days after the writing of this 
letter that our poet, "in giving a welcome carousal 
tr, the new year, with his gay companions," suffered 
hia flax to catch fire, and his shop to be consumed to 
ashes. 

The energy of Burn's mind was not exhausted by 
his daily labours, the efl"usion of his muse, his social 
measures, or his solitary meditations. Some time pre- 
vious to his engagement as a flax-dresser, having 
heard that a debating-club had been established in 
Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of 
the year 1780, our poet, his brother, and five other 
young peasants of the neighbourhood, formed tliem- 
selves into a society of this sort, the declared objects 
of which were lo relax themselves after toil, to pro 
mote sociality and friendship, and lo improve the 
mind. The laws and regulations were furnished by 
Burns. The members were to meet after the labours 
of the day were over, once a week, in a small pubhc- 
house in the village ; where each should offer his 
0|)inion on a given question or subject, supporting it 
by such arguments as he thought proper. The de- 
bate was to be conducted with order and decorum ; 
and after it was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ens'iing meeting. The 
Bum expended by each was not f exceed three pence ; 
and', with the humble potation uat this could procure, 
they were to toast their mir.resses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each othe' . This society continued 
its meetings regularly for some time ; and in the 
autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some account of 
their proceedings, they purchased a book into which 
their laws and regulations were copied, with a pre- 
amble, containing a short history of their transactions 
down to that period. This curious documynl, which 
is evidently ihe work of our poet, has been discovered, 
and it deserves a place in his memoirs. 

" History ofthz Rise, Proceeding!;, and Regulations 
of the Bachelor's Club. 

"Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does otr club afiord ; 

But Ploughmen and mechan':s we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 

" As the great end of human society is to become 
wiser and better, this ought therefore to be the prin- 
cipal view of every man in every station of life. But 
as experience has taught us that such studies as in- 
form the head and mend the heart, wnen long con- 
tinued, are apt ui exhaust the faculties of the mind, it 
ha^ been found p-oper to relieve and unbend the mind 
by some employment or another, that may be agree- 
able enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at the 
same lime not so serious as to exhaust them. But, 
superadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind 
are under the necessity of earning the sustenince of 
human life by the labours of thtir bodies, whereby, 
not only the faculties of the rnind, but the nerves and 
sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it is abso- 
lutely necessary to have recourse to some amusement 
or diversion, to relieve the wearied man, worn down 
with the necessary labours of lite. 

" As the best of Ihings, however, have been pervert- 
ed to the worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of 
amusement and diversion, men have plunged into all 
the madness of riot and dissipation ; and, instead of 
attending to the grand design of human life, they have 
begun with extravagance and foily, and ended with 
giiilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these con- 
siderations, we, the following lade in the parish of| 



Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert 
Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William M'Gavin, resolved, for our mu- 
tual enteriainment, lo unite ourselves into a cluo, or 
sociely, under such rules and regulations, that whiie 
we should forget our cares and labours in mirth and 
diversion, we might not transgress the bounds of inno- 
nocence and decorum ; and after agreeing on these, 
and some other regulations, we held our first meeting 
at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon the 
evening of the 11th of November, 1780, commonly 
called Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns 
president for the nighl, we proceeded to debate on this 
question — Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but 
without any Jortune, had it in his power to marry ti- 
ther of two women, the one a girl of targe fortune, 
but neither /tandsome in person, nor agreeable in con- 
versation, but who can manage the household affairs 
of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl every 
way agreeable in person, conversation , and behav- 
iour, but without any fortune : which of them shall ha 
choose/ Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
we resolved to continue to meet once a month in the 
same house, in the way and manner proposed, and 
shortly thereafter we chose Robert Ritchie for another 
member. In May, 17S1, we brought in David .Sillar,* 
and in June, Adam Jamason, as members. Abjut the 
beginning of the year 1782, we admitted Matthew 
l^atlerson, and John Orr, and in June following we 
chose James Patterson as a proper brother for such a 
society. The club being thus increased, we resolved 
to meet at Tarbolton on the race nigh'., the July fol- 
lowing, and have t, dance in honour of our society. 
Accordingly we did meet, each one with a partner, and 
spent the evening in such innocence and merriment, 
such cheerfulness and good humour, that every brother 
will long remember it wilh pleasure and delight." 
To this preamble are subjoined the rules and regula- 
tions." t 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and 
pleasure, on an institution that combined so skilfully 
the means of instruction and of happiness, and if 
grandeur look down wilh a smile on these simple an- 
nals, let us trust that it will be a smile of benevolence 
and approbation. It is wilh regret that the sequel of 
the history of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must 
be told, it survived several years after our poet re- 
moved from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by his 
talents, or cemented by his social affections its meet- 
ings lost much of their attraction ; and at length, in 
an evil hour, dissention arising amongst its members, 
the insiitution was given up, and the records commit- 
ted lo the rtames. Happily the preamble and the re- 
gulations were spared; and as matter of instruction 
and ot example, they are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton 
to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, he and his brother 
were requested to assist in forraina a similar institution 
there. The regulations of the club at Alauchline were 
nearly the same as those of the club at Tarbolton r 
but one laudable alteration was made. The fines for 
non-attendance had at Tarllon been spent in enlarg- 
ing their scanty poiations ; at Mauchline it was fixeO, 
that the money so arising, should be set apart for the 
purchase of books, and the first work procured in this 
manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers of 
which were at that time recently collected and pub- 
lished in volumes. After it, followed a number of 
other works, chiefly of ihe same nature and among 
these the Loung.r. The sociely of Mauchline still 
subsists, and appeared in the list of subscribers to the 
first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. 



The members of these two societies were originally 
all young men from the country, and chiefly sons ot 
farmers ; a description of persons, in the opinion of 
our poet, more agreeable in their manners, more vir- 

* The person to whom Burns addressea his EpistU 
^ Davie, a brother poU. 

t For which see Appendix, No. II. Note C. 



22 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



tuous in theii conduct, and more susceptible of irn- 
piovement, than llie self-siitficient mechanics of couii- 
tiy towns. With deference to the conversation society 
of Maijchline, it may be doubted, whether the books 
which they purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
promote the interest and happiness of persons in this 
situation oflifa. 'I'he Mirror and the Z/Oi/no-tr, though 
works of great merit, may be said, on a general view 
of their contents, to be less calculated to increase the 
knowledge, than to refine the taste of those who read 
Ihem ; and to this last object, their morality itself, 
which is, however, always perfectly pure, may be 
coas^idered as subordinate. As works of taste, they 
deserve great praise. They are, indeed, refined to a 
high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is 
perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of 
the peculiar manners of the age or country in which 
they were produced. But delicacy of taste, though 
the source of many pleasures, is not without some dis- 
advantages; and to render ii desirable, the possessor 
should perhaps in all cases be raised above the neces- 
eity of bodily labour, unless, indeed, we should include 
under this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which, taste immediately presides. Deiicacy of ta«te 
may be a blessing to him who has the disposal of his 
own time, and who can cnoose what book he shall 
read, of what diversion he shall partake^ and what 
company he shall keep. To men so situated, the cul- 
tivation ol taste affords a grateful occupation in itself, 
and opens a path to many other gratifications. To 
men of genius, in the possession of opulence and leis- 
ure, the cultivation of the taste may be said to be es- 
sential ; since it affords employment to those faculties, 
which without employment would destroy the happi- 
ness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid sensi- 
bility, or, to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that 
delicacy of passion, which is the bane of the tem^jera- 
ment of g«nius. Happy had it been for our bard, after 
he emerged from the condition of a peasant, had the 
delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibihty of liis pas- 
sions, regulating all the effusions of his muse, and 
presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the 
thousands who share the original condition of Burns, 
aod who are doomed to passlheir lives in the station 
in wbifil they were born, delicacy of taste, were it even 
of easy attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be 
at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may 
make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting ; 
and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy 
in his situation, it presents no means by which that 
situation may be improved. Taste and literature, 
which diffuse so many charms throughout society, 
which sometimes secure to their votaiies distinction 
while living, and which still more frequently obtain 
for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with the ut- 
most attention ; andean scarcely be pursued with ad- 
vantage by the peasant in the short intervals of leisure 
which his occupations allow. Those who raise them- 
selves from the condition of daily labour, are usually 
men who excel in the practice of some useful ait, or 
who join habits of industry and sobriety to an ac- 
quaintance with some of the more common branches of 
knowledge. The penmanship of Butterworth, and 
the arithmetic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
the humblest walks of life : and they will assist the 
peasant more in the pursuit of independence, than the 
study of Homer or of Shakspeare, thougli he could 
comprehend, and even imitate the beauties of those 
immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without some 
portion of doubt and hesitation. The subject has 
many relations, and would justify an ample discussion. 
It may be observed, on the other hand, that the first 
step to improvement is to awaken the desire of im- 
provement, and that this will be most effectually done 
by such reading as interests the heart and excites the 
imagination. The greater part of the sacred v/ritiiiiis 
themoeives, which in Scotland are more especially the 
manual of the poor, come under this description, it 
may be farther observed, that every human being, is 
the proper judge of his own happiness, and within the 
path of innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. 
Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to give a 



preference to works of taste and of fancy,* it may r>t 
I presumed they find a superior gratification in the pern- 
sal of such works; and it may be added, that it is of 
more consequence they should be made happy iii their 
original condition, than furnished with the means, or 
with the desire of rising above it. Such considerations 
are doubtless of much weight ; nevertheless, the pre- 
vious reflections may deserve lobe sxamiued, audlier* 
we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton are 
lost, and those of the society at Mauchline have net 
been transmitted, yet we may safely affirm, that our 
poet was a distinguished member of both these asso- 
ciations, which were well calculated to excite and to 
develop the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
persons constituted the society of Tarbolton, and such 
a number is bestsuiied to the purposes of information. 
Where this is the object of these societies, the number 
should be such, that each person mav ha\e an oppor- 
tunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiv- 
ing those of others ; and the powers of private conver- 
sation are to be employed, not those ol public debate. 
A limited society of this kind, where the subject of con- 
versation is fixed beforehand, so that each member may 
revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for shorten- 
ing the acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the 
evolution of talents. Such an association requires in- 
deed somewhat more of regulation than the rules of 
politeness establish in common conversation ; or rather 
perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, which 
in animated conversation are liable to perpetual viola- 
tion, should be vigorously enforced. The order of 
speech established in the club at Tarbolton, appears to 
have been more regular than was required in so small 
a society ;t where all that is necessary seems to be the 
fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall ad- 
dress himsell, and who shall in return secure the speak- 
er froni interruption. Conversation, which among mea 
whom intimacy and friendship have relieved iVoiii re- 
serve and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to so 
many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so 
often diverg»s into separate and collateral branches, 
in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation ot this kiad which prac- 
tice renders easy and familiar, flows along in one full 
stream, and becomes smoother, and clearer, and deep- 
er, as it flows, itmayalso be observed, that in this 
way the acquisition of knowledge becomes more plea- 
saut and more easy, from the gradual improvement of 
the faculty employed to convey it. Though some at- 
tention has been paid to the eloquence of the senate and 
the bar, which in this, as in all other free governments, 
is productive of so much influence to the few who excel 
in It, yet little regard has been paid to the humbler ex- 
ercise of speech in private conversation ; an art that is 
of consequence to every description of persons under 
every form of government, and on which eloquence ol 
every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a dis- 
tinct utterance, is the offspring of much time and of 
long practice. Children are always detective in clear 
articulation, and so are young people, though in a less 
degree. What is called slurring in speech, prevaik 
with some persons through life, especially in those 
who are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach 
its utmost degree of distinctness in men bel'ors the ag« 
of twenty, or upwards ; in women it reaches this point 
somewhat earlier. Female occupations require much 
use of speech because they are duties in detail. Be- 
sides, their occupations being generally sedentary, the 
respiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being more 
delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more live- 
ly ; the natural consequence of which is, a more Ire- 

* In several lists of book-societies among the poorer 
classes in Scotland which the editor has seen, works o> 
this description form a great part. These societies 
arebyno means general, and it is not Eupp-ised that 
they are increasing at present. 

t See Appendix, No. II. Note C. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



23 



«ju«nt utterance of thought, a greater fluency of speech, 
and a distinct ailicuialion at an earlier age. J3ut in 
men who have nut mingled early and farailiai-ly with 
the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear 
In apprehension, it is ol'ten painful to observe the diffi- 
culty with which their ideas are communicated by 
•peech, through the want of those habits that connect 
thoughts, words, and sounds together ; which, when 
established, seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, 
but which, in truth, are the result of long and painful 
practice; and when analyzed, exhibit the phenomena 
of most curious and comphcated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been describing, 
while they m..y be said to put each member in posses- 
sion of the knowledge of all the rest, improve the pow- 
ers of utterance ; and by the collision of opinion, ex- 
cite the faculties of reason and reflection. To those 
who wish to improve their minds in such uitervals of 
labour as the condition ot a peasant allows, this method 
of abbreviaiiing instruction, may, under proper regula- 
tions, be highly useful. To the sUident, whose opinions, 
springing out'of solitary obstrvation and meditation, 
are seldom in the first instance correct, and which 
have, notwithstandhig, while confined to himself, an 
increasing tendency to assume in his own eye the cha- 
racter of demonstrations, an association of this kind, 
where they may be examined as they arise, is of the ut- 
West importance ; since it may prevent those illusicns 
of imagination, by which genius being bewildered, 
fccierce is often debased, and error propagated through 
Bucctssive generations. And to men who have culti- 
vated letters, or general science in the course of their 
educati-in, but who are engaged in the active occupa- 
lions of life, and no longer able to devote to study or 
to books the time requisite for improving or preserving 
their acquisitions, associations of this kind, where the 
mind may urbond from its usual cares in discussions 
ot literature or science, aS'oid the most pleasing, the 
most useful, rtnd the most rational of gratifications.* 

Whether in the humble societies of wliich he was a 
member, Burns acquired m'ich direct information, 
may perhaps be questioned. It cannot however be 
doubted, that by collision, the faculties of his mind 
would be excited •. that by practice his habits of enun- 
ciation would be established ; and thus we have some 
explanation of tha^ early command of words and of ex- 
pression which ennabled him to pour forth his thoughts 
ill language not unworthy of his genius, and which of 
all his endowments, seemed, on his appearance inF.d- 
«nbt.rgh, the most extraordinary.! For associations 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated in 
ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tab- 
lets of learning and science, and necessity produced 
the habit of studying as it were in common. Poets 
were found reciting their own verses in public assem- 
blies ; in public schools only philosophers delivered 
Iheirspeculations. The taste of the hearers, the in- 
genuity of the scholars, were employed in appreciating 
and examining the works of fancy and of speculation 
submitted to their consideration, and the irrevocable 
teorcis were not^ven to the world before the composi- 
tion, as well as the sentiments, were again and again 
retouched and improved. Death alone put the last 
Beal on the labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, may be 
in part explain-jd the extraordinary art and skill with 
which the inonuinents of CJrecian literature that re- 
mains to us, appear to have been constructed. 

+ It appears that our Poet made more preparation 
than might be supposed, for the discussion of the soci- 
ety of Tarbolton. 'I'here were found some detached 
memoranda, evidently prepared tor these meetings ; 
and, amongst others, the heads of a speech on the ques- 
tion mentioned in p. 21, in which, as might be expect- 
ed, ne takes the iinprudcnl side of the question. The 



of a literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable 
relish ; and happy had it been for him, after he emerg- 
ed from the condition of a peasant, if fortune had per- 
milled him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was 
capable, so as to have fortified his principles of virtue 
by the purification of his taste ; and given to the ener- 
gies of his mind habits of exertion that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it must be ac- 
knowledged they were too often wasted, as well as de- 
based. 

The whole course ofthe Ayr is fine; but the banks of 
that river, as it bends to the eastward above Mauch- 
line, are singularly beautiful, and they were frequent- 
ed, as may be iniagined, by our poet >n hia solitary 
walks. Here the muse often visited him. In one of 
these wanderings, he met among the woods a celebra- 
ted beauty of the west of Scotland : a lady, of whom i*. 
is said, that the charms of her person correspond 
with the character of her mind. This incident gave 
rise, as might he expected, to a poem, of which an ac- 
count will be found in the following letter, to which he 
inclosed it to the object of his inspiration : 

To Miss 

Mossgiel, X^Lh November, 1786. 
"Madam, — Foets are such outre beings, so much 
the children of wayward fancy and cajiricious whim, 
that 1 believe the world generally alows them a larger 
latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons 
of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an 
apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has 
taken with you in the inclosed poem, which he begs 
leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the 
proper judge; but it is the best my abiUties can pro- 
duce ; and, what to a good heart will perhaps be a su- 
perior grace, it is equally sincere a-nd as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though 1 dare say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as 
1 believe you scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he 
wandered by you. 1 had roved out as chance direct 
ed, in the favorite haunts of my muse on the banks of 
the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayely ofthe vernal 
year.' The evening sun was flaming over the dis- 
tant western hills; not a breath stirred the crim- 
son opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leal. — 
It was a golden moment lor a poetic heart. I listened 
to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on 
everv hand, with a coiiL:enuil kindred regard, and fre- 
quently turned oulofiuy path, lest I should disturb 
their little songs, or frighten them to another station. 
Surely, said llo myself, he must be a wretch indeed , 
who, regardless of your harmonious endeavours to 
please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover 
your secret recesses, and to rob you and all the proper- 
ty nalui e gives you, your dearest comforts, your help- 
less nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that 
shot acn^s the way, what heart at such a lime biit 
must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it 
preserved from the rudely browsing cattle, or the 
withering eastern blast? Such was the scene — and 
such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I 
spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's woikman- 
ship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a 

following may ser^'e as a farther specimen on the ques- 
tion.^ debated in the society at TvirhoUon:— Whether 
do we derive more happiness from love or friendship 7 
Whether belw. en friends, whi) 'uivt no reason to aoubt 
each other's friendship, there should be a?iy reserve .? 
WhethiT is the savage man, or the peasant of a civili- 
zed countnj, in the most happy situation 1 — Whether 
is a young man in the lower ranks of life likeliest to 
be happy, who has got a good education, and his mind 
well informed, or hewho has just the education and in- 
formation of those around hhn'.' 



S4 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



poet's eye: those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and 
Villiany taken my walk, they had at that moment 
Bwoni eternal pesce with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would 
have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor 
and measure. 

" The enclosed song* was the work of my return 
home ; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might 
have been expected from such a scene. 



" I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, 

and very humble servant, 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet has re- 
counted this incident, and into which the letter and 
poem are copied, he complains that the lady made no 
reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wound- 
ed his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find 
an excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time 
little known ; and where known at all, noted rather 
for the wild strength of his humour, than for those 
Etrains of tenderness in which he afterwards so much 
excelled. To the lady herself his name had perhaps 
never been mentioned, and of such a poem she might 
not consider herself as the proper judge. Her modes 
ty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse nf 
Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her 
beauty was awakening strains destined to immortali- 
ty, on the bank of the Ayr. It may be conceived, al- 
Bo, thatsnpposing the verse duly appreciated, delica- 
cy might find it difficult to express its acknowledge- 
ments. Tne fervent imagination nf the rustic bard 
possessed moreoftendernesn than of respect. Instead 
of raising himself to the condition of the object of his 
admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and 
strain this high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It 
is true. Burns might have found precedents lor such 
freedom among the poetsof Greece and Rome, and in- 
deed of every couutry. And it is not to be denied, 
that lovely women have generally submitted to this 
sort of profanation with patience, and even with good 
humour. To what purpose is it to repine at a misfor- 
tune which is the necessary consequence of their own 
charms, or to remonstrate with a description of men 
who are incapable of control ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of immaginatioa all compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph 
of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did 
not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though 
she received them with silent modesty and dignified re- 
serve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force 
of his imagination, exposed him in a particular manner 
to the impressions of beauty ; and these qualities, unit 
ed to his impassioned eloquence, gave in turn a power- 
ful influence over the female heart. The Banks of the 
Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still 
tenderer nature, the history of which it would be im- 
proper to reveal, were it even in our power ; and the 
traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those 
strains of nature and sensibility to which they gave 
birth. The song entitled HigUund Mary, is known 
to relate to one of these attachments. " It was writ- 
ten," says our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
passages of ray youthful days." The object of this 
passion died in early life, and the impression left on 
the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and last- 
ing. Several years afterwards, when he was removed 
to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his rec- 
otle^tions in that impassioned poem, wnich is address- 
ed To Mary, in Heaven ! 



The song entitled the Lass of Ballochmyle. 



To the delineations of the poet by himself, by uU 
brother, and by his tutor, these additi/ins are necessa* 
ry, in order that the reader may see his character in 
its various aspects, and may have an oppoi tunity of 
forming a just notion of the variety, as well as ol the 
power of his original genius.* 

• The history of the poems formerly printed, wil 
be found in the Appendix to this volume. It is in- 
serted in the words of GilLiert Burns, who, in a letter 
addressed to the Editor, has given the following ac- 
count of the friends which Robert's talents procured 
him before he left Ayrshire, or attractea the notice of 
the world. 

" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our coming to 
it, (Martinmas, 1783,) was the property of the Earl of 
Loudon, but was held in tack by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, 
writer in Mauchline, from whom we had our bargain • 
who had thus an opportunity of knowing, and showing 
a sincere regard for my brother, before he knew that 
I he was a poet. The poet's estimation of him, and the 
I strong outlines of his character, may be collected from 
the dedication to this gentleman. When the publica- 
tion was begun, Mr. H. entered very warmly into its 
interests, a;id promoted the subscription very exten- 
sively. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of 
worth and taste, of warm affections, and connected 
with a most respectable circle of friends and relations. 
It is to this gentleman The CotCer's Saturday Night is 
inscribed. The poems of my brother which I have for- 
merly mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, than 
they were quickly known, and well received in the ex- 
tensive circle of Mr. Aikin's friends, which gave them 
a sort of currency, necessary in this wise world, evea 
for the good reception of things valuable in themselves. 
But Mr. Aiken not only admired the poet; as soon aa 
he became acquainted with him, he showed the warm- 
est regard for the man, and did every thing in his power 
toforward his interest and respectability. The Epistle 
to a Young Friend was addressed to this gentleman's 
son, Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the 
the oldest of a young family, who were taught to receive 
my brother with respect, as a man of genius, and their 
father's friend. 

" The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Ballentine, 
Esq. banker in Ayr ; one of those gentlemen to whom 
my brother was introduced by Mr. Aiken. He inter- 
ested himself very warmly in my brother's concerns, 
and constantly showed the greatest friendship and at- 
tachment to him. When the Kilmsrnock edition was 
all sold off, and a considerable demand pointed out the 
propriety of publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, 
who had printed the first, was asked if he would print 
the second, and take his chance of being paid from the 
first sale. This he declined, and when this came to 
Mr. Ballanline"s knowledge, I.e generously offered to 
accommodate Robert with what money he might need 
for that purpose ; but advised him to go to Edinburgh, 
as the fittest place for publishing. When he did go to 
Edinburgh, his friends advised him to publish again by 
subscription, so that he did not need to accept the offer. 
Mr. William Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock was a 
subscriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmarnock edi- 
tion. This may perhaps appear not deserving of no- 
tice here ; but if the comparative obscurity of the poe'. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



U 



Wt haT? dwell Uie longer on the eariy part of his 
• U», because it is llie least known; and because, as 
tiR« already been mcMiioned, tiiis part ol his history is 
connected with some views of the condiiinn and man- 
ners iif the hiimlilest ranlfs of society, hitherto little nh 
•erved, and which willjterhaps befound neither useless 
^or uninteresting. 

About the time of his leaving his native country, his 
correspondence commences ; and in the series of let- 
ters now given to the world, the chief incidents of the 
remaijiing pan o( his lite will be found. This authen- 
iic, though melancholy record, will supercede in future 
the necessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh In the month of Novem- 
ber, 1786. He was furnished with a letter of intro- 
duction to Dr. Blacklock, from a gentleman to whom 
the Doctor had addressed the letter which is represent- 
ed by our bard as the immediate cause of his visiting 
the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr. 
Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the univer 
sity , and had been entertained by that gentleman at 
Catrme, his estate in Ayrshire. He had been intro- 
duced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to the earl of Glen- 
cairn, who had expressed his hirli approbation of his 
poetical talent. He had friends tlierefore vho could 
mtroduce him into the circles of literature as well as 
fashion, and his own manners and appearance exceed- 
ed every expectation that could have be«!n formed of 
them, he soon became an object of general curiosity 
snd admiration. The loliowing circumstance con- 
tributed to this in a considerable degree. — At the time 
when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical pa- 

H this period, be taken into consideration, it appears 
to me a greater effort of generosity, than many things 
which appear more biil'-iaiit in ray brother's future 
history. 

" Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was 
one of those friends Robert's poetry had procured him, 
»nd one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman 
fcad no very great fortune, or a long line of dignifi- 
•U ancestry : but what Robert says of Captain Mat- 
thew Henderson, might be said of him with great 
piopriety, that he held the patent of his honours im- 
mediately from Almighty God. Nature had indeed 
marked him a gentleman in the most legible cha- 
racters. He died while yet a young man, soon af- 
ter the publication of my brother's first Edinburgh 
edition. Sir William Cunniugha.n of Robertland, 
paid a very flattering attention, and showed a good 
deal of friendship for the poet. Before bis going to 
Kdinburgh, as well as after, Robert seemed peculiar- 
ly pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship and 
conversation. 

" But of all the friendships which Robert acquired in 
Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable 
to him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop ; nor any 
which has been more uniformly and constantly exert- 
ed in behalf of him and his family, of which, were it 
proper, I could give many instances. Robert was on 
the point of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dun- 
lop had heard of him. About the time of my brother's 
publishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted with 
a long and severe illness, which had reduced her mind 
to the most distressing state of depression. In this 
situation, a copy of the printed poems was laid on her 
table by a friend ; and happening to open on The Cot- 
ter's Saturdntj Night, she read it over with the great- 
eat pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the 
uiii,.ie cottagers, operating ou her mind like the charm 



per, entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every Sat- 
urday producing a successive number. His pueiaa 
had attracted the notice of the eeutlemen engaged in 
that undertaking, and the ninety-seventh numtjer of 
those unequal, though frequently beautiful essays, is 
devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, tlte Ayrshire 
Ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, written 
by the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie.* The Lounger 
had an extensive circulation among persons of taste 
and literature, not in Scotland only, but in various 
parts of England, to whose acquaintance therefore our 
bard was immediately introduced. The paper of Mr. 
Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him advan- 
tageously. 'I'he extracts are well selected ; the criti- 
cisms and reflections are judicious as well as generous ; 
and in the style and sentiments there is that happy 
delicacy, by which the writings of the author, are so 
eminently distinguished. The extracts from Bunis'a 
poems ill the ninety-seventh number of The Lounger 
were copied into the London as well as into many of 
the provincial papers, and the tame of our bard spread 
throughout the island. Of the manners, character, 
and conduct of Burns at this period, the following ac- 
count has been given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of 
Moral Philosophy in the university of Edinburgh, 
in a letter to the editor, which he is peculiar happy 
to have obtainei permission to inseit in these me- 



" The iirst time I saw Robert Burns was on the 23q 
of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayr 
shire, together with our common friend Mr. John 
Mackenzie, surgeon, in Mauchline, to whom I am in- 
debted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. I aoQ ea> 

of a powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui, and 
restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and sat- 
isfaction, Mrs. Dunlop sent off a person express to 
Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a rery 
obliging letter to my brother, desiring him to send her 
half a dozen copies of his poems, if he had them to 
spare, and begging he would do her the pleasure of 
calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. This 
was tlte beginning of a correspondence which eoded 
only with the poet's life. The last use he made of bis 
pen was writing a short letter to this lady a few dajl 
before his death. 

" Colonel Fullarton, who afterwards psid a ve»7 
particular attention to the poet, was not in the country 
at the time of his first commencing author. At this 
distance of time, and in the hurry of a wet day, snatch- 
ed from laborious occupations, I may have forgot som* 
persons who ought to have been mentioned on this oc- 
casion ; for which, if it come to my knowledge I shall 
be heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particular 
value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole 
heiress to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, and lineal 
descendant cf the illustrious Wallace, the first of Scot- 
tish warriors, possesses the qualities of mmd suited to 
her high lineage. Preserving, in the decline of life, the 
generous affections of youth ; her admiration of the 
poet was soon accompanied by a sincere friendship for 
the man ; which pursued him in after-life through good 
and evil report ; in poverty, in sickness, aud in sor- 
row ; and which is conthiued to his infant family, now 
deprived of their parent. 

* This paper has been attributed, but improperly, 
to Lord Craig, one of the Scottish judges, author of 
the very interesting account of Michael Bruce in Ui« 
36ih number. 



86 



THE LIFE or BURNS. 



•bled to mention the Jate particularly, by some verses 
which Burn* wrote after he returned home, and in 
wluch the day of our meeting is recorded. Aly excel- 
lent and much lamentei: friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened toairive at Catrine the same day, and 
by the knidness and frankness of his manners, left an 
impression on the mind of the poet, winch never was 
efl'aced. The verses 1 allude to are among the most 
imperfect of liis pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhapt 
be an object of curiosity to you, both on acconiu of the 
character to which they relate, and of the hglit which 
they throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, 
before his name was known to the public* 

" I cannot positively say at this distance of time, 
whether at the period of oiy first acquaintance, the Kil- 
marnock edition of his poems had been just published, 
or was yet in the press. I suspect that the latter was 
the case, as I have still In my possession copies in his 
own hand writing, of some of his favorite performances ; 
particularly of Ins verses" on turning up a Mouse with 
his plough j" — "on the Mountain Daisy ;" and " the 
Lament." On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the 
volume, and mentioned what 1 knew of the author's 
history to several of my friends : and among others, 
to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended 
nim to public notice in the 97ih number of The Loun- 
eer. 

"At this time Biirns's prospects in life were so ex- 
tremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed a plan of 
going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not 
however without lamenting that his want of patronage 
should force him to think of a project so repugnant to 
his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an 
object than the station of an exciseman or gauger in 
his own country. 

"His manners were then, as they continued ever 
afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; strong- 
ly expresive of conscious genius and worth ; but with- 
out any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, 
or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not 
more than belonged to him ; and listened with appa- 
rent attention and deference on subjects where his 
■want of education deprived him of the means of infor- 
mation. If there had been a little more gentleness and 
accommodation in his temper, he would, I think, have 
been still more interesting ; but he had been accustom- 
ed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaint- 
ance ; and his dread of any thing approaching to mean- 
ness or servility, rendered his manner somewhat deci- 
ded and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarka- 
ble among his various attainments, than the fluency, 
and precision, and originality of his language, when 
he spoke in company ; more particularly as he aimed 
at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more 
successfully than most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of 
Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Eilinburgh early in the winter follow- 
in?, and remained there for several months. By whose 
advice he look this step, I am unable to say. Perhaps 
it was suggested only by his own curiosity to see a lit- 
tle more of the world ; but, I confess, 1 dreaded the 
conseqnences from the first, and always wished that 
His pursuits and habits should continue the same as in 
the former part of life ; with the addition of. what [ 
considered as then completely within his reach, a good 
farm on moderate terms, in a part of the country agree- 
able to his taste. 

" The attention he received during his stay in town, 
from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such 
as would have turned any heart but his own. I can- 
not say that 1 could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained the same 
simplicity of manners and appearance which had 
struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the coun- 
try ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the number and rank ol his new ac- 

* See the poem entitled " Lines on an Interview 
With Lord Daer." 



quaintance. His dress was perf ctly suited to htttk- 
tion, plain, and unpretending, with a sulhcien*. atteo- 
tion to neatness. If I recollect right he always woie 
boots ; and, when ou more than usual ceremony, buck- 
skin breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while in E'lin- 
burgh, jirEveiited ine from seeing him so often as 1 
could have wished. In the course of the spring he call" 
ed on ine once or twice, at my request, early in '.he 
morning, and walked with me to Braid-liills, in the 
neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed me still 
more by his private convvisatioii, than he had ever 
done in company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nauire ; and I recollect once he told 
me when J was adni:ring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many 
Ginoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, whicii 
none could undersiund who has not witnessed, like 
himself, the happiness and the worth which they con- 
tamed. 

" In his political principles he was then a Jacobite ; 
which was perhaiis owing partly to this, that his father 
was originally from the estate of Lord Mareschall. 
Indeed he did not appear to have thought much on 
such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a very 
strong sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated occasion- 
ally in some convivuil nnceluigs, which he frequented. 
1 speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for 
afterwards we met but seldom, and our conversations 
turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his private af- 
fairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not from 
any of your letters to me, that you had ever seen 
Burns." If you have, it is superlluous to me to add, 
that the idea which his conversation conveyed of the 
powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which 
is suggested by his writings Among the poets whom 
I have happened to know, 1 have been struck in more 
than one instance, with the unaccountable disparity 
between their geneial talents, and the occasional in- 
spirations of their more favourable moments. But all 
the faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I could 
judge, equally vigorous j and his predilection for poe- 
try was rathar the result of his own enthusiastic and 
impassioned temper, than of a genius exclusively 
adapted to that species of composition. Krom his con- 
versation I should have pronounced him to be fitted to 
excel in whatever walk of ambition be had chosen to 
exert his aoilities. 

" Among the subjects on whicli he was accustom- 
ed to dwell, the characters of the individuals with 
whom he happened to meet, was plainly a favourite 
one. The remarks he made on them were always 
shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too 
much to sarcasm. His praise ot those he loved wag 
sometimes indiscriniinate and extravagant ; but this, 
1 suspect, proceeded raiher from the caprice and liu- 
muui ol the moment, ihuii from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was ready, 
and always impressed with the marks of a vigorous uii- 
dsistaiiding ; but to my taste, not often pleasing or 
happy. His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
works, arc the only performances perhaps, that be 
has produced, totally unworthy of hisgenius. 

" In summer, 1787, 1 passed some weelis In Ayrshire, 
and saw Burns occasionally. 1 think that he made 
a pretty long excursion that season to the Highlands, 
and that he also visited what Beatlie calls the Arcadi- 
an ground of Scotland, upon the banks ut the Tevio; 
and the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that notwith- 
standing various reports I heard <luriiig the preceed- 
iiig winter, of Burns's predilectioti for convivial, and 
not very select society, I should have concluded in fa- 
vour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever 
fell under my own observation. He told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such at 

• Tbe editor has seen and conversed with Siuiu. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



87 



todepriTo nirtl entirely of any merit in his tempernnce. 
I was however somewhat alarmed about liie eftect of 
Ills now com|)aratively sedentary and luxurious life, 
when ho confessed to me, the first night he spent in 
my house after his winter's campaign in town, that he 
had been much disturbed when in bed, by u palpitation 
of his heart, which, he said was a complaint to which 
he had of late become subject. 

•' In the course of the same season I was led by cu- 
riosity to attena lor an hour of two a Mason-Lodge in 
Mauchline, where Burns presideil. He had occasion 
to make some short un|)remeditated compliments to 
diHerent individuals from whom he liad no reason to 
expect a visit, and every thing he said was hajipily 
conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. 
If I am not mistaken, he told me that in that village, 
tefore going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
club of such of the inhabitants as had taste for books, 
when tliey used to converse and debate on any interest- 
ing qrieslions that occurred to them in the course of 
tlieir reading. His manner of speaking in public liai' 
evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elo 



" I must not omit to mention, what I have always 
considered as characteristical in a high degree of true 
genius, the extreme facility and good-nature of his 
taste in judging of the compositions of others, where 
there was any real ground for praise. I repeated to 
him many passages of English poetry with which he 
was unacquainted, and have more than once witness- 
ed the tears of admiration and rapture with which he 
heard them. The collection of songs by Ur. Aikin, 
which I first put into his hands, he read with unmixeil 
delight, notwithstanding his former elforts in that very 
diiRcult species of writing ; and 1 have little doubt tliat 
it had some e&'eci. la polishing his subsequent composi- 
tions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think hia taste was 
equally sound. I once read to him a passage or two 
in Franklin s Works, which I thought very happily ex- 
ecuted, upon the model of Addison ; but he did not 
appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of 
thera with indifference, when compared with the point, 
and antithesis, and quaintness o\ Junius. The influ- 
ence of this taste is very peiceptible in his own prose 
compositions, although their great and various excel- 
lences render some of them scarcely less objects of 
wonder than his poetical performances. The late Dr. 
Robertson used to say, that considering his education, 
the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of 
the two. 

"His memory was tincommonly retentive, at least 
for poetry, of which he recited to me frequently long 
compositions with the most minute accuracy. They 
were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in Scottish dia- 
lect ; great part of them (he told me) he had learned in 
his childhood from hia mother, wbo delighted in such 
recitatiins, and whose poetical taste, rude, as it proba- 
bly was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her 
son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which accidentally fell 
Into his hands in his early years, he mentioned parti- 
cularly the recommendatory poems, liy different au- 
thors, prefixed to Herveifa M dilations ; a book 
which has always had a very wide circulation among 
such of the country people of Scotland, as affect to 
unite some degree of taste with their religious stinlies. 
And these poems (although they are certainly below 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree of rap- 
ture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact 
himself, ns a proof how much the taste is liable to be 
influenced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account he 
gave of him, to have been a respectable and worthy 
charact'jr, possessed of a mui<l superior to what might 
have been expected from bin station in life. He ascri- 
bed much of his own principles and feelings to the ear- 
ly impressions he liad received from his mstruetioii aud 



example. I recollect that he once applied to^tm(and 
he added, that the passage was a liioral statemeul of 
fact) the two last lines of the following passage in the 
Minstrel ; the whole of which he repeated with great 
enthr ^ 



Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bind him, though doom'd to i)eri3h, hope to live ? 
Is it for this fair vii tue oft must strive. 

With disappointment, penury, and pain.-" 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive j 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant 



This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught t 
In sooth, ' Iwas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot 
say any thing with certainty. He always sjioke with 
respect and gratitude of the schoolmaster who had 
taught him to read English ; and who, finding in hia 
scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the grammatical 
principles of the language. He began the study of La- 
tin, and dropt it belore he had finished the verbs. I 
have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin woi-ds, 
such as omnia vincit amor, kc. but they seemed to ba 
such as he had caught from conversation, and which 
hej-epeated by rote. 1 think he had a project, after 
he came to Ediiibui-gh, of prosecuting the study under 
his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the 
masters of the grammar-school here ; but 1 do not 
know that he ever proceeded so far as to make the 
attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; 
and, if he had an atl'ectation in any thing, it was in in- 
troducing occasionally a word or phrasef rom that lan- 
guage. It is possible that his knowledge in this respect 
might be more extensive than 1 supinise it to be ; but 
this you can learn from his more intimate acquaint- 
ance. It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any improvement 
to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much ; nor 
would 1 believe it, but on very strong and pointed evi- 
dence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was well in- 
structed in arithmetic, and knew sometliing of practi- 
cal geometry, particulaily of surveying. — Alibis other 
attainments were entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the winter, 
178889,* when he passed an evening with me at 
Driunseugh, in the neighbourhood of Kdinburgh, 
where I was then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was 
tbe unly other person in c ipany 1 never saw hira 
more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr. 
Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, 
drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment which I 
remember to have read with some degree of surpiisa 
at the distinct conception he appeared from it to have 
formed of the general principles of the doctrine of (.^-.sv- 
cialion. When 1 saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last 
autumn, I forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- 
ence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of 
our friend Mr.Houlbrooke."t 



* Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with confidence 
with respect to the particular year. Some of my other 
dates may possibly require correction, as 1 keep no 
journal of such occurrences. 



This letter is No. CXIV. 



28 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



The scene that opened on our bard in Edinburgh 
W»i altogether new, and in a variety of other respects 
highly interesting, especially to one of his diapos'tir>n 
of iniud. To use an expression of his own, he found 
himself, " suddenly translated from the veiiest shades 
of life," into the presence, and, indeed, into the sncie- 
ly of a number of persons, previously known to him by 
report as of the highest distinction in his country, and 
whose cliaraciers it was natural for him to examine 
with no common curiosity. 

Prom the men of letters, in general, his receptioti 
was particidarly flattering. The late Dr. Robinson, 
Dr. Bluir, Dr. Gregory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie 
and Mr. Frazcr 'I'ytler, may be mentioned ni the list 
ol those wtio perceived his uncommon talents, who 
acknowledst'd more especially Ins powers 
tioij, and who interested themselves in the cult 
ol his genius. In Edinburgh, literary and fashionable 
society are a good dealmned. Our bard was an ac- 
ceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beauty and ele 
gance, those ;>tteniioiis above all others most grateful 
to him. At the table of Loid Mnnboddo he was a fre- 
quent guest : and while he enjoyed the society, ana 
partook of the hospitalities of the venerable judge, he 
experienced the kindness anil condecension of his 
lovely and accomplished daughter. The singular 
beauty ofthis young lady was illuminated by that hap- 
py expression of countenance which results from the 
union of cultivated taste and superior understanding, 
with the finest affections of the mind. The influence 
ofsuchaltractions wasnot nnfellbyour poet. " There 
has not been any thing like Miss Biirnet, (said he in a 
letter to a friend,) in all the combination of beauty, 
grace, and goodness the Creator has formed, since 
AIilton"5 Eve, on the first day of her existence." In 
his Address to Edinljurgh, she is celebrated in a elain 
of still greater elevation : 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine I 

I see the Sire of Love on high, 
And own his work indeed divine !" 

This lovely woman died a few yeans afterwards 
In the flower of youth. Our bard expressed his 
sensibility on that occasion, in verses addressed to 
her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion. Burns was par- 
ticularly distinguished by James, Earl of Ulencaira. 
On the motion of this nobleman, tha Caledonian Hunt. 
an association of the pnncipal of the nobility and gen- 
Iry of Scotland, extended their patronage to our bard, 
and admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid 
their notice by a dedication of the enlarged and im- 
proved edition of his poems, in which he has celebrated 
their patriotism and independence iu very animated 
terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the blood of her an- 
cient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and that, from 
your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may 
expect protection, wealth, and libeity.**** May 
corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; 
and mty tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in 
the People, equally find in you au inexorable foel"* 



It is to be presumed thai these generous sentiments, 
uttered at an era singularly propitious to independence 
of character and conduct, were favourably received by 
tlie persons to whom they were addressed, and that 
they were echoed from every bosom,as well as from that 
of the Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished nobleman, 
ascholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon af- 
terwards. Had he lived, and had his power equalled 
his wiihes, Scotland misht still have exulted in the 
genius, instead of lamenting llie early fate of her fa- 
Tourite bard. 

• 3«:ft Dedication prefixed to ihe Poems 



A taste for lelter-s is not always conjoined with hah- 
its of temperance and regularity ; and Kdinbui-gh, at 
the period of which we speak, rontainjd perliaps as 
uncommon proportion of men ot considerable talents, 
devoted to social excesses, in which their talents wer« 
wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this descrip 
tion, with the usual vehemence of his cnarncter. His 
generous afl'ections, his ardent eloquence, his brillian' 
and daring imaginatio:i, fitted him to be the idol of 
such associsrliona ; and accustoming himself to con- 
versation of uidimited range, and to festive indulgences 
that scorned restraint, he gradually lost some portion 
of Ws relish for the more pure, but less poignant plea- 
sures, to be fiiund in the circles of taste, elegance, an'l 
literature. The sudden alteration of his habits of life 
operated on him physically as well as murally. The 
humble fare of an Ayrshii-e peasant he had exchanged 
for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis., and Uie ef- 
fects of this change on his ardent conslitution could 
not be inconsiderable. But whatever influence might 
jje produced on his conduct his excellent understand 
ing suflered no corresponding debasement. He esti- 
mated his friends and associates of every descrii)tion 
at their proper value, and appreciated his own condiict 
with a precision that i.iight give scope to much curious 
and melancholy reflection. He saw his danger, and at 
times formed resolutions to guai'd against il ; but he 
had embarked on the tide of dissipation, and was borne 
along its stream. 

*Df the state of his mind at this time, an authentic, 
though imperfect document remains, m a book which 
he procured in the spring of 1787, for the purpose, as 
he himself informs us, of recoi-ding in it whatever 
seemed worthy of observation. The following ex- 
tracts may serve as a specimen ; 

Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 
'• As I have seen a good deal of human life in Ed- 
inburgh, a great many characters which are new to 
One bred up in the shades of life as I have been, I am 
delermiiieil to take down my remarks on the spot. 
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. lalgrave, that • half 
a word fixed upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart 
load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the 
world in general, but with me, making my remarks is 
by no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one 
to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, 
some one to please me, and help my discrimination, 
with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, 
to admire my acuteness and penetration. The world 
are so busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, 
iirterest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth 
their while to make any observation on what passes 
around them, except where that observation is a 
sucker, or branch of the darling plant they are rear- 
ing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding 
all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the 
sage piiilosophy of moralists, whether we are capable 
of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as 
that one man may pour out his bosom, his every 
thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with 
unreserved confidence to another, without hazard of 
losing part of that respect which man deserves from 
man ; or, from the unavoidable imperfections at- 
tending human nature, of one day repenting his con- 
fidence. 

" For these reasons 1 am determined to make these 
pages my confidant ; 1 will sketch every character 
that any way strikes me, to the best of my power, 
with unshrinking jtistice. I will iusei-t anecdotes, and 
take down remarks in the old law phrase, icitkout 
feud or favour. Where I hit on any thing clever, 
my own applause will, in some measure, feast my 
vanity ; and, begging Patroclus' and Achates' par- 
don, I think a lock and key a security, at least equal 
to the bosom of any friend whatev^. 

" My own private story likewise,- my love adTen- 
tin-es, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles of fortune 
on my hardship ; my poems and tragments, that 
must never see the light, shall be occasionally ic»«rV» 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



<d. 



Fn «hort, never did four shillings 
fidence went 
to sale. 



nucii friendship, since confi 
kct. or Donesty was set up to 



pnrchage so 
irst to mar- 



" To these seemingly invidious, but too just ideas of 
humcin iriendship, I would cheerfully make one ex- 
ception — the couiiexion between two persons of dif- 
ferent sexes, when their interests are united and ab- 
eorbed by the tie of love- 
When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it 

pan, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. 
There confidence, confidence that exalts them the 
mo.-e in one another's opinion, that endears them the 
more to each other's hearts, unreeer vedly " reigns and 
revels." But this is not mv lot ; and, in my situa- 
tion, if I am wise, (which, by the by, 1 have no great 
chance of being,) ray fate should be cast with the 
Psalmist's sparrow, " to watch alone on the house- 
tops."— Oh 1 the pity. 



" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give 
me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison 
how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is re- 
ceived every where, with the reception which a mere 
ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and 
futile distinctions of fortune, meets. 1 imagine a man 
of abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, con- 
scious that men are born equal, still giving honour to 
honour to whom honour is due ; he meets at a great 
man's table, a Squire something, or a Sir somebody 
he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard 
or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, be 
yond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how will it mor- 
lify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarce- 
ly have made an eight-penny tailor, and whose heart 
IS not worth three farthings, meet with attention and 
notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and 
Doveriy ? 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul 
here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him 
He showed so much attention, engrossing attention 
one day, to the only blockhead at table, (the whole 
company consisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and 
myself,) that 1 was within half a point of throwing 
down my gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he 
shook my hand, and looked so benevolently good at 
parting. God bless him ! though I should never see 
him more, 1 shall love him until my dying day I 1 am 
pleased to think 1 am so capable of the throes of grat- 
itude, as I am miserably deficient in some other vir- 



" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never 
respect him with humble veneration ; but when he 
kindly interests himself in my welfare, or still more, 
when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on 
equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows 
with what is called liking. When he neglects me for 
the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye mea- 
sures the ditference of our points of elevation, X say to 
myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do 1 care for 
him or his pomp either :"' 



liberate efforts of his understanding, which, while 
Ihey exhibit great clearness of discrimination, mani 
est also the wish, as well as the power, to be»to«r 
tugU and generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we give in this 
edition the character of Dr. Blair, who has now paid 
Uie debt of nature, in the full confidence that this 
freedom will not be found inconsistent with the res- 
pect and veneration due to that excellent man, the last 
star in the literary constellation, by which the me- 
tropolis of Scotland was, in the earlier part of the 
present reign, so beautifully Uluminated. 

" U is not easy forming an exact judgment of any 
one ; but, in my opinion, Dr. Blair is merely an as- 
touisning proof of what industry and application can 
do. Natural pans like his are frequently to be met 
with ; his vanity is proverbially known among his ac- 
quaintance ; but he is justly at' the head of what may 
be called fine writing ; and a critic of the first, the 
very first rank in prose ; even in poetry, a bard of 
Nature's making can only take the pas of him. He 
has a heart, not of the very finest water, but far from 
being an ordinary one. In short, he is truly a worthy 
and most respectable character." 



By the new edition of his poems, Burns acquired a 
;ra of money that enabled him not only to partake 



ol the pleasures of Edinburgh, but to gratifv a des 
he had long entertained, of visiting those pa'rts of I 



' iT J '"<e"<-"'n« of the poet in procuring thiebouk, so 
lully described by himself, were very imperfectly exe- 
cuted. He has inserted in it (evf or no incidents but 
several observations and reflections, of which the 
p eater part that are proper for the public eve, will be 
found interwoven in his letters. The mo:>t curious 
particulars in the book are the delineations of the 
characters he met with. These are not numerous • 
L^t they are chiefly of persons of distinction in the re- 
public of letters , and nothing but the delicacy and 
espect due to living characters, prevents us Iroir. 
"onfmittiug them to the press. Though it appears 
hat 111 his conversation he was sometimes disposed to 
<ircastic remarks on the men with whom he lived, 
•othingof this kind is discoverable in these mors de- 



desire 
visiting those parts of his 

tive country, most attractive by their beauty or 
their grandeur ; a desire which the return of summer 
naturally revived. The scenery on the banks of the 

weed, and ol its tributary streams, strongly interest- 
ed his fancy ; and accordingly he left Edinburgh oa 
the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour through a country so 
much celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. He 
travelled on horseback, and was accompanied, during 
some part of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to 
thesignet, a gentleman who enioved much of his friend- 
ship and of his confidence. Of this tour a journal re- 
mains, which, however, contains only occasional re- 
marks on the scenery, and which is chiefly occupied 
*!"' 3" account of the author's different stages, and 
with his observations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of this tour 
he visited Mr, Ainslie of Berrywell, the father of his 
companion ; Mr. Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to 
whom he carried a letter of introduction from Mr. 
Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Sommerville, of Jedburgh, 
the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope ; Dr. 
Elliot, a physician, retired to a romantic spot on the 
'""['s of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir James 
Hall, of Dunglass ; and a great variety of other res- 
pectable characters. Every where tlie fame of the 
poet had spread before him, and every where he re 
ceived the most hospitable and flattering attentions. 
At Jedburgh he continued several days, and was ho- 
noured by the magistrates with the'fieedum of their 
borough. The following may serve as a specimen of 
this tour, which the perpetual reference to living 
characters prevents our giving at large, 

" Saturday, May 6th. Left Edinburgh— Lammer- 
rauir-lulls, miserably dreary in general, but at times 
Very picturesque. 



" Lansoii-edg 
Reacli Berrywe 
my compagnon 
larly the sister. 



^a glorious view of the Merge 

* ' * The family meeting with 
e voyage, very charming ; particu- 



" Saturday. Went to church atDunse. Heard Dr. 
Bowmaker, • * » 

I^ionday. Coldstream— glorious river Tweed— 
-near and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream 
with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Kore- 
man in a dispute about Voltaire. Druik tea at Lenei- 
HousewithMr. and Mrs. Brydone. ' * ' Recentifto 
eJttrsmely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. 



so 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso— charming situa- 
tion of the '.own — fine bridge over the Tweed. En- 
chanting views and prospects on both sides of ihe river, 
especially on the Scouli side. " " Visit Roxbury 
I'alace — line siiuadon ol it. Ruins of Roxbury C'aslie 
—a holly-bush growing where James II. was acciden- 
tally killed by llw; bursiing of a cannon. A small old 
religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by Ihe 
religious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a 
mailrs d'kolel of the Duke's— Climate and soil of 
Beiwickshire and even Roxbutyshire, superior to Ayr- 
shire-bad roads— turnip and sheep husbandry, their 
great imjirovemenls. • • * Low markets, conse- 
quenllv lowlands— magnificence of farmers and farm- 
houses. Come up the 'i'iviol, and up the Jed to Jed- 
burgh to lie, and so wish myself good uight. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. * * • 
Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gar- 
dens and orchards, inlermingledamongthe houses and 
the ruins of a once magnifitent cathedral. All the 
towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, 
but extremely idle. "Jed, a fine romantic little river. 
Dined with Capt. Rutherford, • • ♦ return to Jed- 
burgh. Walk up the Jed with some ladies to be shown 
Love lane, and Blackburn, twofairy scenes. Iniroduc- 
ed to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Air. Summerville, the 
clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but 
Eadly addicted to punning. 



" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the ma- 
gistrates with the freedom of the town. 

" Took farewell to Jedburgh with some melancholy 
eensatious. 

" Monday, May Xith, Kelso. Dine with the farm- 
er's club—all gentlemen talking of high matters — each 
of them keeps a hunter from 3(1'. to 50/. value, and at- 
tends the loxhuuting club in the country. Go out 
with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. 
Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker 
is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — 
every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accom- 
pany me iu my English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very 
wet day. • ♦ ' Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set 
out next day for Melross — visit Diyburgh, a fine old 
ruined abbey,by the way. Cross the Leader, and come 
up the Tweed to Melross. Dine there, and visit that 
far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks 
ofEttrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on 
Tweed and Eltrick, remarkably stony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring this interest- 
ing scenery. Burns crossed over into Northumberland. 
ISlr. Ker, and Mr. Hood, two gentlemen with whom 
he had become acquainted in the course of his tour, 
accompanied him. He visited Alnwick-Castle, the 
princely seat of the Duke ot Northumberland ; the 
hermitage and old castle of Warksworlh ; Morpeth, 
and Newcastle. --In this last town he spent two days, 
and then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham and 
Wardrue.to CarUsle. --After spending a day at Car- 
lisle with his friend Mr. Alitchell, he returned into 
Scotland, and at Anoau his journal terminates ab 
ruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became ac- 
«]uainted in the course of this journey, he has, in 
general, given some account ; and almost aiways a 
favourable one. That on the banks of the Tweed, and 
of the Tiviol, our bard should find nymphs that were 
beautiful, is what might be confidently presumed. -- 
Two ol these are particularly described iu his journal. 
But it does not appear that'the scenery, or its inhabi- 
tants, produced any eft'orl of his muse, as was to have 
been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns pro- 
ceeded to Dumfries, and thence through Sanquhar, to 
Mossvel. nearMauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arriv- 



ed about the 8th of June, 1787, after a long absence o> 
six busy and eventful months. It will easily be coo. 
ceived with what pleasure and pride he was received 
by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left 
them poor, and comparatively friendless : he returned 
to them high in public estimation, and easy in his cir- 
cumstances. He returned to them unchanged in hia 
aident affections, and ready to share with them to the 
uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had be- 
stowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he pro- 
ceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediately set out 
on a journey to the Highlands. Of this tour no parti- 
culars have been tounii among his manuscripts. A 
letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near 
Crochahbas, by LochlcaTy^June'jlS, 1787, commences 
as follows : 

"I -write you this on my tour through a country 
where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
thinly overspread with savage flocks, which starvingly 
support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was In- 
verary — to morrow night 's stage Dumbarton. I ought 
sooner to have answered your kiiud letter, bvt you know 
I am a man of many sins. 

Fart of a letter from our Bard to a friend, giv- 
ing some account of his journey, has been communi- 
cated to the Editor since ihe publication of the last edi- 
tion. The reader will be amused with the following 
extract. 

" On our return, nt a Highland gentleman's hospi- 
table mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and 
danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. 
Our dancing was none of the French or English insi- 
pid formal movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs 
like angels, at intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the 
Browst'er, Tullochgorum, Loch Erroch side,' &c. 
like midges sporting in the moltie sun, or craws prog- 
nosticating a storm in a hairst day. — When the dear 
lasses left us we ranged round the bowl till the good- 
fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes that we went 
out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day 
peeping over the towering top of Benlomond. We all 
kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; 
each man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, re- 
pealed some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhy- 
mer's prophesies 1 suppose. — After a small relresh- 
ment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the 
day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the 
evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, 
and consequently pushed the bottle ; when we went 
out to mount our horses we found ourselves " No vera 
fou but gaylie yet." My two friends and I rode sober- 
ly down the Loch side, till by came a Highlandman at 
the gallop, on a tolerable good horse, but which had 
never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We 
scorned to be out galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
started, whip and spur. My conipanions, though 
seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly astern; but my 
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinale family, 
she strained past the Highlandman in spite of all his 
efforts, with the hair-halter : just as 1 was l>assing 
him. Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me 
to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and 
threw his rider's breekless a— e in a dipt hedge ; and 
down caino Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny 
Geddes Irode over me with such cautious reverence, 
that matters were not so had as might well have been 
expected ; so 1 came off with a few cuts and bruises, 
and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety 
for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the se- 
rious business of life. 1 am, just as usual, a rhyming, 
mason making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. How- 
ever 1 shall somewhere have a farm soon. Iwasgcine 
to say, a wife too ; but that must never be my blessed 
lot. I am but a younger son of the house of Parnas- 
sus, and like other younger sons of great families, 1 may 

* Scotch tunes. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



31 



iatngue, If I choose to ran all riska, but must not 
marry. 

"I am afraid I have almoat ruined one source, tlie 
principal one indeed, of rny former happiness ; iliat 
Mernal propensity I always had to fall in love. My 
Heart no more glows wiih feverish rapture. 1 have no 
paradaisical evening interviews stolen from the restless 
cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I 
liavo only * * " ". This last is one of your distant 
acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners ; 
and in the train of some great folks whom you know, 
has seen the politest quarters in Eiirope. I do like her 
a good deal ; but what piques me is her conduct at the 
comrnencemenl of our acquaintance. I frequently visit- 
ed her when 1 was iu^— , and after passing regularly 
the iiitermediatu degrees between the distant for- 
mal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I 
Ventured in my careless way to talk of friendship in 

rather ambiguous terras ; and aftei her return to , 

] wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my 
words farther I suppose than ever I intended, tlew off 
in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a moun- 
tain lark in an April morning: and wrote me an an- 
swer which measured me out very completely what an 
immense way I had to travel IJefore I could reach 
the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk 
at the sport; I wrote her such a cool, deliberate, 
prudent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial 
towerings, pop down at ray foot like corporal Trim's 
(lat. 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and 
nil my wise sayings, and why n>y mare was called 
lenny Geddes ; they shall be recorded in a few weeks 
hence, at Linlithgow, iu the clirouicles of your memo- 
ry, by 

"ROBERT BURNS." 



From this j'jurney Burns returned to his friends in 
Ayrshire, with whom he spent the nAuth of July, re- 
newing his friendshijjs and extending his acquaintance 
throughout the country, where he was now very gen- 
erally known and admired. In August he again visit- 
ed Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey 
towards the middle of this month, in company with 
Mr. M. Adair, now Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, of 
which this gentleman has favoured us with the follow- 
ing account. 

" Burns and I Jeft Edinburgh together in August, 
1787. We rode by l-.inlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. 
We visited the iron works at Carron, with which the 
jjoet was forcilily struck. The re3eml)lance between 
that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classic reader, pre- 
sented itself to Burns. .At Stirling the prospects from 
the Castle strongly interested him ; in a former visit to 
w+iich, his national feelingj h:id been powerfully ex- 
cited by the ruinous and roofless state of the hall in 
which the Scottish parliaments had been held. His 
iudigtiation had vented itself in some imprudent, but 
not tinpoetical lines, which had given much offence, 
and which he took thisoj)portuniiy of erasing, by break- 
i/ig the pane of lli« whidow at the iau on which they 
Were written. 

*' At Stirling we met with a company of travellers 
from Edinburgh, among whom was a character in 
many respects congenial with that of Burns. This 
was Nicol, one of the teachers of the High Grammar- 
School at Edinburgh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; the same fondness for convivial society, and 
thoughtlessness of to-murrw, characterized both.-- 
Jacobilical principlesin politics were common to both 
of them ; and these have been suspected, since the re- 
rolution of France, to have given place in each, 
to opinions apparently opposite. I regret that i 
have preserved no memorahilin of their conversation, 
either on this or on other occasions, when I happened 
10 meet them together. Many songs were sung, which 
I mention for the sake of observing, that when Burns 
was called on in his tiirn, he was accustomed, instead 
"•f «iagiug, to recite one or ilie other of liis own shorter 



poems, Avith atone and emphasis, which, though not 
correct or harmonious, weie impressive and pathetic. 
This he did on the present occasion. 

" From Stirling we went next morning through the 
romantic and fertile vale of Devon to Harvieston, ia 
Clackmannanshire, then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton, 
with the younger part of whose family Burns had been 
previously acquainted. He introduced me to the family, 
and there was formed my first acquaintance with Mrs. 
Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have been mar- 
ried for nine years. Tluis I was indebted to Burns 
for a connexion from which I derived and expect fur- 
ther to derive much happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days at Harvie- 
ston, we made excursions to visit various parts of the 
surrounding scenery, inferior to none in Scotland, in 
beauty, sublimity, and romantic interest ; particularly 
Castle Campbell, the ancient seat of the family of Ar- 
gyle ; and the famous Cataract oi' the Devon ; called 
the Caldron Linn; and the Rambling Bridge, a sin- 
gle broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to 
be beheved, across the river, at about the height of a 
hundred feet above its bed. I am surprised that none 
of these scenes should have called forth an exertion of 
Buriis's muse. But 1 doubt if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. I well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston, who accompanied us on this jaunt, ex- 
pressed their disappointment at Ills not expressing iu 
more glowing language, his impressions of the Caldron 
Linn scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat 
horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clacltmannan, a lady a- 
bove ninety, the lineal descendant of that race which 
gave the Scottish throne its brightest ornament, inter- 
ested his feelings more powerfully. This venerable 
dame, with characteristical dignity, informed me on 
my observing tliat I believed she was descended from 
the family of Robert Biuce, that Robert Bruce wag 
sprung from her family. Though almost deprived of 
speAh by a paralytic aftectinn, she preserved her hos- 
pitality and urbanity. She was in the possession of 
the hero's helmet and t-^-Orhanded sword, with which 
she conferred on Burns and myself the honour of knight- 
hood, rematking, that she had a better right to confer 
that title than sofltepeo/)/:;. * ' You wi!! of course 
conclude that the old lady's political tenets were as 
Jacobitical as the poet's a conformity which contribu- 
ted not a little to the cordiality of our reception and 
entertainment. -She gave us as her first toast after 
dinner, Awa' Uncos, or Away with the Strangers. -- 
Who these strangers were, you will readily under- 
stand. Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be 
Hooi, or Hooi micos, a sound used by shepherds to di- 
rect their dogs to drive away tlie sheep. 

"We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the 
shore of Lochleven) and Q,ueen's-ferry. I am inclined 
to think Burns knew nothing of poor Michael Bruce, 
who was then alive at Kinross, or had died there a 
short while before. A meeting between the bards, or 
a visit to the deserted cottitge and early grave of poor 
Bruce, would have been highly interesting.* 

"At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey and 
the abbey church, now consecrated to Presbyteriau 
worship. Here 1 mounted the cully stool, or stool of 
a penitent for f4)inicatioii ; while Burns from the pul- 
pit addressed tome a ludicrous reproof and exhorta- 
tion, parodied from that which had been delivered to 
himself in Ayrshire, where lie had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat oj shame 
together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stones marked 
the grave of Robert Bruce, for whese memory Burns 
had more than common veneration. He knelt and kiss- 
ed the stone with sacred fervour, and heartily (suui 
ut mos irat) execrated the worse than Gothic neglect o' 
the first of Scottish heroes. "t 

* Bruce died some years before. E. 
I t Extracfed from a letter of Dr. Adair to the £ditor. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



The surprise expressed hy Dr. Adair, in his excel- 
lent letter, that the roniajitic scenery of the Devon 
•hould have failed to call forth any exertion of the po- 
et's muse, is not in its nature sineular ; and the dis- 
appointmenl felt at his no', expressing in moreislowing 
language his emotions on the sight of the famous cata- 
ract of that river, is similar to what was felt hy the 
friends of Burns on other occasions of the san>e nature. 
Yet the inference that Dr. Adair seems inclined to 
draw from it, that he had little taste for the picturesque, 
might be questioned, even if it stood uncontroverted hy 
other evidence. The muse of Burns was in a high de- 
gree capricio\is ; she came uncalled, and often refused 
ti) attend at his bidding. Of all the numerous subjects 
suggested to him by his friends and correspondents, 
Uiere is scarcely one that he adopted. The very ex- 
pectation that a particular occasion would excite the 
energies of fancy, if communinated to Burns, seem- 
ed in him as in other poels, destructive of the effect ex- 
pected. Hence perhaps may be explained, why the 
banks of the Devon and of the Tweed form no pari of 
(he subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoping may perhaps explain 
the want of emotion with which he viewed the Cal- 
dron Linn. Certainly there are no affections of the 
mind more deadened by the influence of previous ex- 
pectation, than those arising from the sight of natural 
objects, and more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Minute descriptions of sceiies, of a subJime nature, 
Bhould never be given to those who art about to view 
them, particularly if they are persons of great strength 
and sensibility of imagination. Language seldom or 
never conveys an adequate idea of such objects, hut 
in the mind of a great poet it may excite a picture 
that far transcends them. The imagination of Burns 
might form a cataract, in comparison with which the 
Caldron Linn should seem the purling of a rill, and 
even the mighty falls of Niagara, an humble cascade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining 
our Bard's deficiency of impression on the occasion 
referred to, or whether it ought rather to be imputed 
to some pre-occupation, or indisposition of mind, we 
presume not to decide ; bi>t that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, 
may be supported hy irresistible evidence. It is true 
this pleasure was greatly heightened in his mind, as 
might be expected, when combined with moral emo- 
tions of a kind with which it happily unites. That 
wnder this association Burns coineinplaied the scenery 
of the Devon witV the eye of a genuine poet, some 
lines which he wrote at this very" period, may bear 
witness.! 



The different journevs already mentioned did not 
satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the beginning of 

* This reasoning might be extended, with some 
modifications, to objects of sight of every kind. 'I'o 
have formed before hand a distinct picture in the 
mind, of any interesting person or thing, generally 
lessens the pleasure of the first meeting with them. 
Though this picture be not superior, or even equal to 
the reality, still it can never be expected to be an ex- 
act resemblance ; and the disappointment felt at 
finding the object something different from what was 
expected, interrupts and diminishes the emotions 
that would otherwise be prwluced. Tn such cases, 
the second or third interview gives more pleasure 
than the first. — See the Elements of the Philosophy 
of the Human Mind, by Mr. Stewart. Such pub- 
lications as The Guide to the Lrikts, where every 
Bcei« is described in the most minute manner, and 
sometimes with considerable exaggeration of lan- 
guage, are in this point of view objectionable. 

t See the song beginning, 
" How pleasant the banks of the clear winding De- 
von." 



September, he again set out from Edi.iburgh en > 
more extended tour to the Highlands, in company 
with Mr. Nicol, with whom he had now contracted It 
particular intimacy, which lasted riuiingthe remain- 
der of hislile. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfriesshire, of a 
descent equally humble with our poet. Like him, he 
rose by the strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the summer of 
1797. Having received the element* of a classical 
instruction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol made a very 
rapid and singular profij-iency ; and by early underta- 
king the oifice of an instructor himself, he acquired 
the means of entering himself at the University of 
Kdinburgh. There he was first a student of theology, 
then a student of medicine, and was afterwards em- 
ployed in the assistance and iiistniction of graduates 
in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which 
the Latin language is emjiloyed. In this situation he 
was the contemporary and rival of the celebrated Dr. 
Brown, whom he resenibled in the particulars of his 
hisstory, as well as in the leading features of his char- 
acter. The olfice of assistant-teacher in the Higlj- 
school being vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by 
competition ; and in the face of some prejudices, and, 
perhaps, of some well-founded objections, Mr. Nicol, 
by superior learning, carried it from all the other 
candidates. This office he filled at the period of 
which we speak. 

It is to he lamented that an acquaintance with the 
writers of Greece and Rome, does not always supply 
an original want of taste and correctness in manners 
and conduct ; and where it fails of this efl'ect, it 
sometimes inflames the native pride of temper, which 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has 
not learned to excel. It was thus with the fellow- 
traveller of Bums. Formed by nature in a model of 
great strength, neither his person nor his manners 
had any tincture of taste or elegance ; and his coarse- 
ness was not compensated by that romantic sensibility, 
and those towering flights of imagination which dia- 
tiiiguislied the conversation of Burns, in the blaze i>t 
whose genius all the deficiencies of his manners were' 
absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and oiir poet travelled in a postchaise, 
which they engaged for the journey : and, passing 
through the heart of the Highlands, stretched nortl^ 
wards, about ten miles beyond Inverness. There 
they bent their course eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shore of the German sea to Edin- 
burgh. In the course of this tour, some particularf of 
which will be found in a letter of our bard. No. XXX. 
they visited a number of remarkable scenes, and the 
imagination of Burns was coiisianlly excited by the 
wild and sublime sce»iery through which he passed, 
or this several pro :fs may be foujid in the poems lor- 
meily printed.* Of the history of one of these 
poems, The Humble Petition of Bruar Wntrr, and 
of the bard's visit to Alhole House, some particulars 
will be found in No XXiX ; and by the favour of 
Mr. Walker of I eith, then residing in the family of 
the nuke ol Alhole, we are enabled to give the follow- 
ing additioual account : 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arrj. 
val (as I had been previously arquainled with him,) 
and 1 hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke to 
whom he brouglit a letter of introduction, was front 
home ; bvit the Dutchess, being informed of his arrival, 
gave hirn an invitation to sv>p and sleep at Alhole 
House. He accepted the invitation ; but as the hour 
of supper was at some distance, begged ' wouM in 
the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was 
already growing dark ; yet the softened though faint 
and uncertain view of their beauties, which the moon - 

* See " Lines on scaring some water-fowl in Loch- 
Turit, a wild scene among the hills of Ochtertyre." 
" Lines written with a J'encil over the Chimney- 
piece, in the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth." "Line* 
written with a pencil standing bj the fall of Fyeis 
near Lochiiess." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



33 



fight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the stale of 
his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, ex- 
perienced the pleasares which arise from the siiblime 
or elegant landscape, but 1 never saw those feelings so 
intense as in Boms. When we reached a rusiic hut 
OM the river Till, where it is overhung by a woody 
precipice, from which ihere is a noble water-fall, he 
threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up 
■,o a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm 
of imagination. I cannot help thinking it might have 
heen here that he conceived the idea of" the following 
lines, which he afierwards introduced into his poem 
on Bruar Wafe/-, when only fancying such a ;ombiua- 
tion of objects as were now present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Uoarse-s welling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty t prevailed on him to 
quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to 
supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he would con- 
duct himself in company so diiferent fiom what he had 
been accustomed to.* His manner was unembar- 
rassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to liave com- 
plete reliance on his own native good sense for direct- 
ing his behaviour. He seemed al once to perceive and 
to appreciate what was due to the company and to 
himself, and never to forget a proper resjiec't for the 
separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did 
not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he 
spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. HeJried 
to exert his abilities, because he knew it was aoility 
alone gave him a title to lie there. The Duke's fine 
young family attracted much of his admiration ; he 
drank their healths as hoiiist men and bomiy lasses, 
aji idea which was much applauded by the company, 
and with which lie very felicitously closed his poem, f 

" Next day I took a ride with him through some of 
Uje most romantic parts of that neighbourhood, and 
was highly gratified by his conversation. As a speci- 
men of his happiness of conception and strength of 
expression, 1 will mention a remark which he made 
on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a 
few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but 
clumsy person ; and while Burns was expressing to 
me the value he entertained for him on account of his 
vigorous talents, although they were cloudeil at times 
liy coarseness of manners ; 'in short,' he added, 'his 
mind is like iiis body, he has a confounded strong, in- 
kneed sort of a soul.' 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both before and 
after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly 
sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure I 
recommended to him, as the most appropriate return 
he could make, to write some descriptive verses on any 
of the scenes with which he had been so much de- 
lighied. Alter leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's 
advice, visited the Falls of Braur, ami in a few 
days I received a letter from Iveraess, with the verses 
enclosed."! 

It appears that the impression made by our poet on 
the noble family of Athole, was in a high degree favour- 
able ; it is certain he was charmed with the reception 
be received from them, and he often mentioned the 
two days he spent at Athole House as amongst the 

■* In the preceding winter. Burns had been in com- 
pany of the highest rank in Edinburgh ; but this de- 
•.ription of his manners is perfectly applicable to his 
ferei appearance in such society. 

1 See The Humble Petition of Bruar Water. 
^ Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mr. Cun- 
See Letter No. XXIX. 



happiest in his life. He was warmly invited to pro 
long his clay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his en- 
gagement with Mr. Nicol ; which is the more to be 
regretted, as he would otherwise have been introduced 
to Mr. Duudas (then daily expected on a visit to the 
Duke,) a circumstance which might have had a favour- 
atile influence on Burns's future fortunes. Al Athole 
House he met, for the lir-^t time, Mr. Graham of h'intry, 
to whom he was afierwards indebted for the ofiice in 
the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed to Mr. 
Graham, bear leslimony of his sensibility, and jus- 
tily the supposition, that he would not have been "de- 
ficient in gratitude had he been elevated to a situa- 
tion belter suited to his disposition and lo his tal- 
ents.* 

A fewdaysafter leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and 
his fellow-traveller arrived al Fochabers. In the 
course of the preceding winter Burns had been intro- 
duced to the Dutchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and 
presuming on his acquaintance, he proceeded to Gor- 
don-Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol al the inn in the village. 
At the castle our poet was received with the utmisi 
hospitality and kindness, and the family being about 
to sil down to dinner, he was invited to take his place 
at table as a mailer of course. Tins invitation he ac- 
cepted, and after drinking a few glasses of wine, h» 
rose up, and proposed to withdraw. On being pressed 
lo stay, he mentioned for the first lime, his engagement 
with his fellow-traveller : and his noble host ofl'eiiug to 
send a servant to conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle, 
Burns insisted on undertaking that office himself. He 
was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a parti- 
cular acquaintance of the DuJie,by whom the invita- 
tion was delivered in all the forms of politeness. The 
invitation came too late; the pride of Nicol was in- 
flamed in a high degree of passion. He had ordered 
the horses lo be put to the carriage, being determined to 
proceed on his journey alone ; and they found him 
parading the streets of Fochabers, bofore the door of 
the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the 
slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no 
explanation nor entreaty could change the purpose of 
his fellow-traveller, o.ir poet was reduced to the ne- 
cessity of separating from him entirely, or of instantly 
proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the 
last of these alternatives ; and seating himself beside 
Nicol in the post chaise with mortification and regret, 
he turned his back on Gordon Castle where he had 
promised himself some happy days. Sensible, how- 
ever, of the great kindness of the noble family, he 
made the best return in his power, by the poem be- 



" Streams that glide in orient plains. "t 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater 
part of the winter, 1787-S, and again entered into the 
society and dissipation of that metropolis. It appears 
that on the 31st day of December, he attended a meet- 
ing lo celebrate the birth day of the lineal descendant 
of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been 
the wish or purpose of the original instiiutors of this 
annual meeting, there is no reason to suppose that the 
gentlemen of whomit was at this time composed, were 
not perfectly loyal to the King on the throne. It is not 
to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any 
wish for, the restoration of the flouse of Stuart ; but, 
over their sparkling wine, they indulged the generous 
feelings which the recollection of fallen greatness is 
calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the heroic 
valour which strove to sustain it in vain — valour wor- 
thy of a nobler cause, and a happitJr fortune. On this 
occasion our bard took upon himself the office ofpoel- 

* See the first Epistle to Mr. Graham, soliciting aa 
employment in the Excise, Letter No. L VI. and hi« 
second Epistle. 

+ This information is extracted from a letter of Dr« 
Couper of Fochabers, to the Editor. 

2 



34 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Jiuraate, and produced an ode, which though deficient 
Va Ci\e complicated rliythiu and |ioIished versilication 
•via. aach coniposiiions reijuire, miglil on a fair compe- 
a..on, where energy of feelings and of expression were 
alone in question, have won the butt of Malmsey from 
Jhe real laureate of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a specimen ; 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we care no more : 

And owing Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honoured, mighty dead I 
Who nobly perished in the glorious caiise, 
Your King, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led. 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 

Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high 
flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.* 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at the last the unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale I 
So Vengeance • • • 

Inrelatmg the incidents of our poet's life in Edin- 
burgh, we ought to have mentioned the sentiments of 
respect and sympathy wiih which he traced out the 
grave of his predecessor Ferguson, over whose ashes in 
the Oanongate church-yard, he obtained leave to erect 
an humble monument, which will be viewed by reflect- 
ing minds with no commun interest, and which will 
awake in the bosom of kindred genius, many a hish 
emouon.t Neither should we pass over the continued 
friendship he experienced from a poet then living, the 
amiable and accomplished Blacklock —To his encour- 
aging advise it was owing (as has already appeared) 
that Burns instead of emigrating to the West Indies, 
repaired to Edinburgh. He received him there with all 
the ardour of affectionate admiration; he eagerly in- 
troduced him to the respectable circle of his friends ; 
he consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame : he 
lavished jpon him all the kindness of a generous and 
feeling heart, into which nothing selfish or envious 
ever found admittance. Among tlie friends to whom 
te introduced Burns was Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 

* In the the first part of this ode there is some beau- 
tiful imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in 
a happier mar.ner in the Chevalier's Lament. (See 
Le*".er, No. LXV.) But if there were no other lea- 
fcf.ns for omitting to print the entire poem, the want of 
originality svould be sufficient. A considerable part of 
t is a kind of rant, for which indeed precedent may be I 
ciUd in various other birthday odes, but with which 
K is impossible to go along. 

t See Letters No. XIX, and XX. where (he Epi- ' 
f»ph will be found. &c. I 



to whom our poet paid a visit in the AutOTOn of 1787, set 

his deliglufui letirement in the neighbourhood of .Stir- 
ling, and on the banks of the Teilh. Of his visit wa 
have the foUowii>g particulars : 

"I have been in the company of many men of gen- 
ius." says Mr. Ramsay, "some of them poets; but 
never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness 
as from him, thu impulse of the moment, sparks ot 
celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, therefore, 
than with his company for two day«, tete-a-tete. In a 
mixed company 1 should have made little of him ; for, 
in the gamester's phrase, he did not always know when 
to play off and when to play on. • * * I not only 
proposed to him the writing of a play similar to the 
Gentle Shephtrd, qualim decet esse sororem, but 
Scottish Ge.Tgics a subject which Thompson has by 
no means exhausted in his Seasons. What beautiful 
landscapes of rural life and manners might not have 
been expected from a pencil so faithful and forcible as 
his, which could liave exhibited scenes as familiar and 
interesting as those in the Gentle Shepherd, which 
every one who knows our swain in their unadulterat- 
ed state, instantly recognises as true to nature. But 
to have executed either of these plans, steadiness and 
abstraction from company were wanting, not tal- 
lents. When 1 asked him whether the Edinburgh 
Literati had mended his poems by their criticisms, 
' Sir,' said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of some 
spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so 
fine that it is neither fit for werft nor woof.' Hesaid 
he had not changed a word except one to please Dr. 
Blair.'" 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, in 
February, 1788, Burns found himself master of nearly 
fivehyndred pounds, after discharging all his expen- 
ses. Two hundred pounds he immediately advanced 
to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon himself 
the support of their aged mother, and was struggling 
with many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With 
the remainder of this sum, and some farther eventful 
profits from his poems, he determined on settling him- 
self for life in the occupation of agriculture, and took 
from Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, the farm of Eilis- 
land, on the banks of the river Nith, six miles above 
Dumfries, on which he entered at Whitsunday, 1788. 
Having been previously recommended to the Board of 
Excise, his name had been put on the list of candi- 
dates for the humble office of a gauger or exciseman ; 
and he immediately applied to acquiring the informa- 
tion necessary for filling that office, when the honoura- 
ble Board might judge it proper to employ him. He 
expected to be called into service in the district in 
which his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 
unite with success the labours of the farmer with the 
duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged his plans 
for futurity, his generous heart turned to the object 
of his most ardent attachment, and listening to no 
considerations but those of honour and affection, he 
joined with her in a public declaration of marriage, 
thus legalizing their union, and rendering it permanent 
for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a specimen 
of his poetry had recommended him to Mr. Miller of 
Dalswinton. Understanding that he intended to re- 
sume the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had invited him, 
in the spring of 1787, to view his estate in Nithsdale, 
offering him at the same time the choice of any of his 
farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns and his 
friends might judge proper. It was not in the nature 
of Burns to take an undue advantage of the liberality 
of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in this business, howev- 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Rarnsayto the Edi- 
tor . This incoirigibility of Burns extended, however, 
only to his poems printed before he arrived in Edin- 
burgh ; for in regard to his unpublished poems, he was 
amenable to criticism, of which many proofs might be 
given. See some remarks on this subject, iu the Ap 

pf.diz. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



35 



eT; with more than usual deliberation. Having made 
ftjioice of the farm of Kilislaiid, he employed iwo ol h'.^ 
(rieiids, skilled in Uie value of land, to examine it, 
Rnd with their approbation oftered a rent to Mr. Mil- 
ler, which was immediately accej'ted. It was not 
lonveaient for Mrs. Burns' to remove immediately 
from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore took up his res- 
idence alone at Ellisland, to prepare for the reception 
of his wife and children, who joined him towards the 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found himself, 
was calculated to awaken reflection. The dift'erent 
steps he had of late taken, were in their nature highly 
important, and might be said to have in some mea- 
sure, fixed his destiny. He had become a husband 
and a father ; he had' engaged in the management of 
a considerable farm, a difficult and laborious underta- 
king ; in his sucress the happiness of his family was 
involved ; it was time, therefore, to abandon the 
gayety and dissipation of which he had been too much 
enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, and to 
form virtuous resolutions respecting the future. That 
Eucn was actually the state of his mind, the following 
extract from his common-place book may bear wit- 
ness : 

ElUsland, Sunday, Uth June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have been in this 
country. 'Lord, what is man!' What a bustling 
little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! 
and what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! 
* * * There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as 
rhomson says, uir^He sole survives. 

' Tell us ye dead 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be f 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, 
that t woul<' almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, 
'gladly lay me in my mother's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to struggle with 
the stream, till some sudden squall shall overset the 
eilly vessel ; or in the listless return of years, its own 
craf.iness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to tliose 
giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though 
half sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and hu- 
mour, are at best but thriftless idling with thj precious 
current of existence ; nay, often poisoning the whole, 
that, like the plains of Jericho, the wnter is ytought, 
and the ground barren, and nothing short of a super- 
naturally gifted EUsha can «ver after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hard- 
est to care, if virtue and religion were to be any thing 
with me but names, was what in a few seasons I must 
have resolved on ; in my present situation it was abso- 
lutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride 
of character, justice to my own happiness for after- 
life, so far as it could depend (which it surely will a 
great deal) on internal peace ; all these joined their 
warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, 
wi.h a rooted atlachraent, to urge the step I have ta- 
ken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. 
I can fp.i'cy how, but have never seen where, I could 
have made a better choice. Come, then, let me act 
up to my favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young— 

" On reason build resolve, 
" That column of true majesty in man ! ' ' 

t'DCJer the impulse of these reflections, Burns imme- 
dia.e.y engaged in rebuilding the dwelling-house on 
liiE jcrin, which, in the stat-i he found it, was inade- 
qus...i vo the accommodation of his family. On this 
occasion, he himself resumed at times the occupation ol 
a li«b"urer, and found neither his strength nor his 
•ki impaired. Pleased with surveying the grounds 
Was about to cultivate, and with the reaiing of a 



building that should give shelter to his wife and 
children, and, as he fondly hoped, to his own gray 
hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up his 
mind, pictures ol domestic content and peace rose on 
his imagjiiation ; and a few days passed away, as he 
himsel "iiitorms us, the most tranquil, if not the hap- 
piest, which he had ever experienced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his 
life, our poet Was without the society of his wife and 
children. A great change had taken place in his situ- 
ation ; his old habits were broken . and the new cir- 
cumstances .a which he was placed, were calculated 
to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct, t 
But his application to the cares and labours of his 
farm, was interrupted by several visits to his family 
ill Ayrshire ; and as the distance was too great for a 
single day's journey, he generally spent a night at an 
inn on the road. On such occasions he sometimes 
fell into compaiiv, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed, in a little while temptation assailed hiiu 
nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of 
his neighbours, and he soon formed a general ac- 
quaintance ill the district in which he lived. The 
public vuiee had now pronounced on the subject of 
his talents ; the reception he had met with in Edin- 
burgh had given him the currency which fashion be- 
stows ; he had surmounted the prejudices arising 
from his humble birth, and he was received at the 
table of the gentlemen of N'ithsdale with welcome, 
with kindness, and even with respect. Their social 
parlies loo often seduced him from his rustic labour 
and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of 
his resolutions, and inflamed those propensities which 
temperance might have weakened, and prudence ul- 
tiraately suppressed. J It was not long, therelore, 
before Burns began to view his farm with dislike and 
despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately, he had for several years looked to an 
office in the Excise as a certain means of livelihood, 
should his other expectations fail. As has already 
been mentioned, he had been recommended to the 
Board of Excise, and had received the instructionos 
necessary for such a situation. He now applied to be 
employed ; and by the interest of Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, was appointed exciseman, or, as it is vul- 
garly called, ganger, of the district in which he lived 

* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost a'. ways 
gave rise in our poet to some production of his m-<se 
His sentiments on this occasion were in part expressed 
by the vigorous and characteristic, though not very 
delicate song, beginning, 

" I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae body ;" 
t Mrs. Burns was about to be confined in child bed, 
and the house at EUisland was rebuilding. 

X The poem of The Whistle, (Poem, p. 60) cele- 
brates a Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen 
of Nithsdale, where Burns appears as umpire. Mr 
Riddell died before our Bard, and some elegiac verses 
to his memory will be found entitled. Sonnet on thi 
death of Robtrt Riddell. From him, and from ali 
the members of his family, Burns received not kind- 
ness only, but friendship ; and the society he met ir 
general at Friar's Carse, was calculated to improve 
his habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergusson of 
Craigdarroch, so well known for his eloquence t»r,d 
social talents, died soon after our poet. Sir RoLeit 
I aurie, the third person in the drama, survives, and 
has since been engaged in a contest of a bloodier na- 
ture. Long may he live to fight the battles of fait 
country ! (1799.) 



?<> 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Ris s-rm was tfler Ix.'e, ti a g-.ieat measure a?ir.Joned 
to servants, while he betook himgeif to tlie duties of 
018 new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the spring, direct- 
ing his plough, a labour in which he excelled ; or with 
a white sheet, containing his seed-corn, slung across 
his shoulders, striding with measured steps along his 
turned up furrows, and scattering the gram in the 
earth. Bui his farm no loiiser occupied the principal 
part of his care or his ihouijhts. It was noi at Kllis- 
land that he was now in general to be found. Mounted 
on horseback, this high-minded poet was ,.ursuinz the 
defaulters of the revenue, among the hills and vales of 
Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over the charms 
of nature, and muttering his wayward fancies as he 
moved along. 

"I had an adventure with him in the year 1790," 
says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochlertyre, in a letter to the 
editor, when passing through Dumfriesshire, on a tour 
to the South, with Dr. Stewart of Luss, Seeing him 
pass quickly, near Closeburn, I said to my companion, 
'that is Burns.' On coming to the inu, the hostler 
told us he would be back in a few hours to grant per- 
mits ; that where he met with any thing seizable, he 
was no better than any other ganger ; in every thing 
else, that he was perfectly a gentleman. After leav- 
ing a note to be delivered ro him on his return, I pro- 
ceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. 
I was much pleased with his uxor Sabina qualis, and 
the poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of 
ordinary rustics. In the evening he suddenly bounc- 
ed in upon us, and said, as he entered, 1 come, to use 
the words of Sh.ikspeare, stewed in haste. In fact he 
had ridden incredibly fast after receiving my note. 
We fell Into conversation directly, and soon got into 
the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had 
now gotten a story for a Drama, which he was to call 
Bob Marqwchan^s EJsho-i, from a popular story of 
Robert Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, 
when the heel of his boot having loosened in his flight, 
he applied to Robert Macquechan to fit it ; who, to 
mske sure, ran his awl nine inches up the king's heel. 
We were now going on in a great rate, wlien Mr. 
S popped in his head, which put a stop to our dis- 
course, which had become very interesting. Yet in a 
Sttle while it was resumed ; and such was the force 
«nd versatility of the bard's genius, that he made the 

i.ears run down Mr. S 's cheek, albeit unused to 

the poetic strain. * * » From that time we met no 
more, and I was grieved at the reports of him after- 
wards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like 
again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in litera- 
ture, irregular in its motions, which did not do good 
proportioned tc the blaze oflight it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two Eti^^ifh gentlemen, who 
bad before met •»'lh him in Edinburgh, paid a visit to 
fcim at EUisland. On calling at '.he house they were 
informed that he had walked cct on the banks of the 
river ; and dismounting from theirhorses, they proceed- 
ed in search of him. On a rock that projected into the 
■tream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a sin- 
^alar api)earance. He had a cap made of a fox's skin 
on his head, a loose great coat fixed round him by a 
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland 
oroad-sword. It was Burns. He received them with 
great cordiality, and asked them to share his humble 
dinner — an invitation which they accepted. On the 
table they found boiled beef, with Tegetables, and bar- 
ley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, of v/hich they 
partook heartily. After dinner, the ban! told them in- 
genuously that he had no wine to offer them, nothing 
better than Highland whiskey, a bottle of which Mrs. 
Burns set on the board. He produced at the same time 
his punch-bowl made of Inverary marble ; and, mix- 
ing the spirit with water and sugar, filled their glasses, 
and invited them to drink.* The travellers were in 
naste, and besides, the flavour of the wliiskey to their 

* This bowl was made of the lapis ollaris, the stone 
ef which Inverary house is built, the mansion of the 
femily of Argyle. 



aotithron palates was scarcely tolerable ; but the se»- 
erous poet offered them his best, and hi» ardent no» 
pitality they found it impossible to resist. Burns wat 
in his happiest mood, and "he charms of his conve''sa- 
tion were altogether fascmating. He ranged over a 
great variety of lopics, illuminating whatever he touch- 
ed. He related the tales ofhisinfancyandof his youth ; 
he recited some of the gayest and some of the tender- 
est of his poeins ; in the wildest of his strains of mirth, 
he threw in some touches of melancholy, and spread 
around him the electric emotions ol his powerful mind. 
The Highland whiskey impioved in its fiavi,or ; the 
marble bowl was again and again emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poets forgot the flight of time, 
and the dictates of prudence : at the hour of midnight 
they lost their way in returning to Dumfries, and could 
scarcely distinguish it when assisted by the morning'* 
dawn.* 

Besides his duties in the excise and his social plea- 
sures, other circumstances interfered with the atten- 
tion of Burns to his farm. He engaged in the formation 
of a society for purchasing and circulating books 
among the farmers of his neighbourhood, of which he 
undertook the management ;t and he occupied him- 
self occasionally in composing songs for the musi- 
cal work of Mr. Johnson, then in the course of 
publication. These engagement?, useful and honour- 
able in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the ab- 
straction of his thoughts from the business of agricul- 
ture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. Not. 
withstanding the uniform prudence and good manage- 
ment of Mrs. Burng, and though his rent was moder- 
ate and reasonable, our poet found it conveiwent, if not 
necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller ; after hav- 
ing occupied it three' years and a half. His office in 
the excise had originally produced about fifty pounds 
per annum. Having acquitted himself to the satisfac- 
tion of the board, he had been appointed to a newdia- 
trict, the emoluments of which rose to about seventy 
pounds per annum. Hoping to support himself and 
his family on this humble income till promotion should 
reach him, he disposed of his stock and of his crop on 
EUisland by public auction, and removed to a small 
house which he had taken in Dumfries, about the end 
of the year 1791 . 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in social 
parties, had abstained from the habitual use of strong 
liquors, and his constitution had not soffered any per- 
manent injury from the irregularities dj his conduct. 
In Dumfries, temptations to the sin thit so easily beset 
him, continually presented themselves ; and his irregu- 
larities grew by degrees into habits. These tempta- 
tions unhappily occurred during his engagements in 
the business of his office, as well as during his hours of 
relaxation ; and though he clearly foresaw the conse- 
quences of yielding to them, his appetites and sensa- 
tions, which could not prevent the dictates of his judg- 
ment, finally triumphed over the powers of his will. 
Yet this victory was not olnaiued without many obsti- 
nate struggles, and at limes temperance and virtue 
seemed to have obtained the mastery. Besides his 
engagements in the excise, and the society into which 
they led, many circumstances contributed to the m - 
lancholy fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him 
an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, anj 
few persons of cultivated minds passed through Dum 
fries without attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasures of his conversation. As he could not re- 
ceive them nnderhisown humble roof, these interviews 
passed at the inns of the town, and often terminated 
in those excesses which Burns sometimes provoked, 
and was seldom able to resist. And among the inhabi- 
tants of Diin-.fries and its vicinity, inere were never 
wanting persons to share his social pleasures ; to lead 
or accompany him to the tavern ; to partake in the 
wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness the strenptb and 
the degradation of his genius. 

* Given from the information of one of the ;v»rt5. 
T See .Mo LXXXVIII. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



37 



SU\., hcwever, he cultivated the society of persons i 
cf tasle and or respectability, and in tiieir company 
could impose on liinisell' tne restraints of temperance 
»nd decorum. Nor was his muse dormant. In tiie lour 
years which he lived in DnmlVies.he produced many 
of his beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that he 
attempted any poem of considerable length. During 
this time he made several excursions into the neigh- 
bouring country, one of which, through Galloway, an 
account is preserved in a letter of Mr. Syme, written 
noun alter; which, as it gives an animated picture of 
him by a correct and masterly hand, we shall present 
to the reader, 

" I gOt Burns a gray Highland shelty to ride on. — 
WediMedthe first day, 27th .luly, 1793, at Glenden- 
wynes.if Parton ! a beautiful situation on the banks of 
the Oee. In the evening we walked out, and ascended 
a gentle eminence, from which we had as fine a view 
of Alpine scenery as can well be imagined. A delight- 
ful soft evening showed all its wilder as well as its 
grander graces. Immediately opposite, aud within a 
mile of us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, 
where dwelt Low, the author of M<mj wept no more 
for vie.* This was classical ground for Burns. He 
viewed " the highest hill which rises o'er the source 
of Dee :" and would have staid till " the passmg 
spirit," had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Kenmore that night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon were sitting down to supper. 

"Here is a genuine baron's feat. The castle, an 
old building, stands on a large natural moat. In front 
the river Ken winds for several miles through the most 
ferlileand beautiful /io/m,t till it expands inloalake 
twelve miles long, the banks of which, on the south, 
present a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, natur- 
al wood, and here and there a gray rock. On the north, 
the aspect is great, wild, and, 1 may say, tremendous. 
In short, I can scarcely conceive a scene more terri- 
bly romantic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks 
BO highly of it, that he meditates a description of it in 
poetry. Indeed, I believe he has hegun the work. We 
■pent three days with Mr. Gordon, whose polished hos- 
pitality is of an original and endearing kind. Mrs. 
Gordon's lap dog. Echo, was dead. She would have 
an epitaph for him. Several had been made. Burns 
was a.^ked for one. This was setting Hercules to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject ; but to please the lady 
hts would try. Here is what he produced. 

" In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore 1 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys 1 
Now half your din of tuneless song 

With Echo silent lies." 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse, I took 
him the moor-road, where savage and desolate regions 
extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic 
with the wretchedness of the soil; it became lowering 

* A beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins 
ih-M— 

" The moon had climbed the highest hill, 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And, fi om the eastern summit, shed 
Us silver light on tower and tree. 

t The level low ground on the banks of a river or 
stream. This word should be adopted from the Scot- 
tish, as, indeed ought several others of the same na- 
ture. That dialect is singularly conious and exact in 
Uia denominations of natural objects. E. 



and dark. The hollow winds sighec?, the lightnings 
gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the 
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but seemed wrapt 
in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall : 
it poured in floods upon us. For three houts did thu 
wild elements rumble th'ir belly full upon our de- 
fenceless heads. Oh! Oh! 'twas foul. Wegotutterly 
wet ; and to revenge ourselves Burns insisted at Gate 
house on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcud- 
bright, through a fine country. But here 1 must tell 
you that Burns had got a pair of jemmy boots for the 
journey, which had been thoroughly wet, and which 
had been dried in such a manner that it was not possi- 
ble to get them on again. The brawny poet tried force, 
and tore them to shreds. A whiflSing vexation of this 
sort is more I rying to the temper than a serious calami- 
ty. We were going to St. Mary's Isle, the seal of the 
Earl of Selkirk, andthe forlorn Burns was discomfited 
at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick stomach, 
and a head ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
was quite iriscabie. I attempted to reason with him. 
Mercy on us ! how did he fume with rage ! Nothing 
could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedi- 
ents, and at last hit upon one that succeeded. I show 
ed him the house of * * *, p.cross the bayofWigton. 
Against* * *, with whom he was offended, he ex- 
pectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable 
temper. He was in a most epigrammatic humour in- 
deed ! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There 
is one « * * whom he does not love. He had a passing 
blow at him. 

" When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve hira but Satan's oww 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear 

never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever." 

"Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright alor 
with our poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruia 
across my saddle in spile of his fulminations, and ir 
contempt of appearances ; and what is more, Lorci 
Selkirk carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He in- 
sisted they were worth meniling. 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. ; 
had promised that we should dine with one of the first 
men in our country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a 
wild obstreperous humour, and swore he would not 
dine where he should be under the smallest resiraint. 
We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine with 
us in the inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the 
evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had 
not absolutely regained the milkiness of good temper, 
and it occurred once or twice to him, as he rode along, 
that St. Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet that 
Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in the senbe of the 
word. We arrived at about eight o'clock, as the fami 
ly were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's isle isone of the 
most delightful places that can, in my opinion, be 
formed by the assemblage of every soft, but not tame 
object which constitutes natural and cultivated beau- 
ty. But not to dwell on its external graces, let me tell 
you that we found all the ladies of the family (all beau- 
tiful) at home, and some stiangers ; and among others 
who but Urbani ! The Italian sung us many Scottish 
songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The 
two young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We had the 
song of Lord Gregory, which I asked for, to have an 
opportunity of calling on Burns to recite ^is ballad to 
that tune. He did recite it ; and such was the efiVct 
that a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence as 
a mind of feeling naturally preserves when it is toucn- 
ed with that enthusiasm which banishes every othei 
thought but the contemplation and indulgence of th 
svmpalhy produced. Burn's Lord Gregory is, in my 
opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad. The 
fastidious critic may perhaps say some of the senti- 
ments and imagery are of too elevated a kind for such a 
style of composition ; for instance, " Thou bol'. of hear 



38 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



▼en that passest by ;" and " Ye, mustering thunder," 
&c. ; but this U a cold-blooded objection, which will be 
gaid rat ner than /e^i. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Sel- 
Jtiik's. We had, in every sense ol the word, a feast, 
in which our minds and our senses were equally grali- 
fied. The poet was delighted with his company, and 
acquitted himself to admiration. Th- lion that had 
raged so violently in the morning, was now as mild 
and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dum- 
fries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you, that 
in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, 
Burns was rapt in meditation. What do you ihink he 
was about ? He was charging the iinglish army along 
widi Bruce at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the 
same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, 
and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me 
the following address of Bruce to his troops, and gave 
me a copy for Dalzell." 

" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the 
ixcise ; but circumstances occurred which retarded 
theirfulfilment, and which in his own mind, destroy- 
ed all expeclation«uf their being fulfilled. The extra- 
ordinary events which ushered in the revolution of 
France, interested the feelings, and excited the hopes 
(if men in every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyr- 
anny seemed about to dispppear from among men, and 
ihe day-star of reason to rise upon a benighted world. 
In the dawn of this beautiful morning, the genius of 
French freedom appeared on our southern horizon 
with the countenance of an angel, but speedily assum- 
ed the features of a demon, and Vaurdshed in a shower 
of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, Burns 
had shared in the original hopes entertained of this 
astonishing revolution, by ardent and benevolent 
minds. The novelty and the hazard of the attempt 
meditated by the First, or Constituent Assembly, 
served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his 
daring temper ; and the unfettered scope proposed 
to be given to every kind of talents, was doubtless 
gratifying to the feelings of conscious but indignant 
genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was 
to be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, 
which on its commencement, promised so much hap- 
piness to the human race. And even after the career 
ol guilt and of blood commenced, he could not imme- 
diately, it may be presumed, withdraw his partial 
gaze from a people who had so lately breathed the 
sentiments of universal peace and benignity ; or ob- 
literate in his bosom the pictures of hope and of hap- 
piness to which those sentiments had given birth. 
Under these impressions, he did not always conduct 
himself with the circumspection and prudence which 
his dependant situation seemed to demand. He en- 
gaged indeed in no popular associations, so common 
at the time of which we speak : but in company he 
did not conceal his opinions of public measures, or of 
the reforms required in the practice of our govern- 
ment ; and sometimes in his social and unguarded 
moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifia- 
ble vehemence. Information of this was given to the 
Board of Excise, with the exaggerations so general 
in such cases. A superior officer in that department 
was authorised to inquire into his conduct. Burns 
defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, written with great independence of spirit, and 
with more than his accustomed eloquence. The offi- 
cer appointed to inquire into his conduct, gave a fa- 
vourable report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, interposed his good offices in his behalf ; and 
the imprudent ganger was suffered to retain his situ- 
ation, but given to understand that his promotion 
was deferred, and must depend on his future beha- 
viour. 

" This circumstance made a deep impression on 
the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his miscon- 
duct, and represented him as actually dismissed from 
hk ofice ; and this report induced a gentleman uf 



much respectability to propose a subscription in nia 
favour. 'i"he offer was refused by our poet in a letter 
of great elevation of sentiment, in which he given an 
account of the whole of this transaction, and defend! 
himself from the imputation of disloyal sentiments on 
the one hand, and on the other, from the charge ol 
having made submissions for the sake of bis office, un 
worthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, 
"has brought me forward as a man of genius, and 
has given me a character to support. In the poet I 
have avowed manly and independent sentiments, 
which 1 hope have been found in the man. ReHsoiu 
of no less weight than the support of a wife and chil- 
dren, have pointed out my present occupation as th« 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still my 
honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thousand 
times have I trembled at the idea of the degrading 
epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to 
my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I lis- 
tened to some future hackney scribbler, with the 
heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting 
that Burns, notwithstanding the Fanfaronnade of 
independence to be found in his works, and after ha- 
ving been held up to public view, and to public esti- 
mation, as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute 
of resources within himself to support his borrowed 
dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the mean 
est of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands. Sir, permit me to lodge 
my strong disavowal and defiance of such slanderous 
falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from his birth, 
and an exciseman by necessity ; but — I will say it ! 
the sterling of his honest worth poverty could not de- 
base, and his independent British spirit, oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy this 
letter into his book of manuscripts, accompanied by 
some additional remarks on the same subject. It is 
not surprising, that at a season of universal alarm 
for the safety of the constitution, the indiscreet ex- 
pressions of a man so powerful as Burns, should have 
attracted notice. The times certainly required ex- 
traordinary vigilance in those intrusted wiih th« 
administration of the government, and to en- 
sore the safety of the constitution was doubtless 
their first doty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their measures of precaution should have robbed 
the imagination of our poet of the last prop on which 
his hopes of independence rested ; and by embittering 
his peace, have aggravated those excesses which 
were soon to conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Borns's temper, increased 
as it often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him 
into many improper and unguarded expressiois, 
there seems no reason to doubt of his attachment to 
our mixed form of government. In his common- 
place book, where he could have no temptation |f, dis- 
guise, are the following sentiments. " Whatever 
might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or mod- 
ern, as to Britain I ever abjured the idea. A consti- 
tution, which in its original principles, experience lias 
proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it 
would be insanity to abandon for an untried visionary 
theory." In conformity to these sentiments, when 
the pressing nature of public affairs called, in 1795, 
for a general arming of the people. Burns appeared in 
the ranks of the Dumfries volunteers, and employed 
his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism ; * 
and at this season of alarm, he brought forward K 
hymn, f worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greec* 
was most conspicuous for genius and valour. 

* See Poem entitled The Dumfries Volunteers. 

t The Song of Death, Poems, p. 83. This poem 
was written in 1791. It was printed in Johnson's Mu- 
sical Museum. The poet had an intention, in the lat- 
ter pan of bis life, of prin'.iug it separately, 8»t t» 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



39 



't'hough by nature of an athletic form, Burns had in 
III his coiistilulion ihe peculiarities and delicacies that | 
belong to the temperanunt of genius. He was liable, 
from a very early period of lite, to that interruplion in 
the process of digestion, which arises from deep and 
uiixious thougiit, and which is sometimes the effect 
and sometimes the cause of depression of spirts. Con- 
nected with this disorder of the stomach, there was a 
disposition to head ache, affecting more especially the 
temples and eyeballs, and frequently accompanied by 
violent and irregular movements of the heart. En- 
dowed by nature with great sensibility of nerves, 
Burns was, in his corporeal, as well as in his mental 
system, liable to inordinate impressions ; to fever of 
body as well as of mind. This predisposition to dis- 
ease, which strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, 
and sound sleep, might have subdued, habits ol a 
very different nature strengthened and inflamed. 
J^erpelually stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its 
various forms, the inordinate actions of the circulating 
system became at length habitual ; the process of 
nutrition was unable to supply the waste, and the 
powers of life began to fiiil. Upwards of a year be- 
foie his death, there was an evident decline in our 
poet's personal appearance ; and though his appetite 
coMtiiuied unimpaired, he was liimself sensible that his 
constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought 
he reflected with the deepest regret on his fatal pro- 
gress, clearly foreseeing the goal towards which he was 
hastening, without the strength of mind necessary to 
fitop, or even to slacken his course. His temper now 
became more irritable and gloomy ; he fled from 
himself into society, often of the lowest kind. And in 
such company, that part of the convivial scene, in 
which wine increases sensibility and excites benevo- 
lence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding part, 
over which uncontrolled passion generally presided. 
He who sufl'ers the pollution of inebriation, how shall 
he escape othf.r pollution ? But let us refrain from 
the mention of »rrors over which delicacy and human- 
ity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met no- 
thing in his domestic circle but gentleness and for- 
giveness, except in the gnawings of his own remorse. 
Fie acknowledged his transgressions to the wife of his 
bosom, promised amendment, and again and again re- 
i*ived pardon for his offences. But as the sn-ength 
of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and 
liabit acquired predominating strength. 

From October 1795, to the January following, an 
accidental complaint confined him to the house. A 
few days after he began to go abroad, he dined at a 
lavernj and returned home about three o'clock, in a 
very Cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. This 
was followed by an attack of rheumatism, which con- 
fiiied him about a week. His appetite now began to 
fail ; his hand shook, and his voice faltered on any 
exertion or emotion. His pulse became weaker and 
more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the 
hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment of le- 
freshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and 
too well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes 
of recovery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
desolation of his family, and his spirit* sunk into a 
uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could 
/ive through the months of spring, the succeeding sea- 
son might restore him. But they were disappointed, 
'i'he genial beams of the sun infused no vigour into his 
languid frame : the summer wind blew upon him, hut 
produced no retreshment. About the latter end of 

music, but was advised against it, or at least discour- 
aged from it. The martial ardour which rose so high 
a.fiervvards, on the threatened invasion, had not then 
acqui.-ed the tone necessary to give popularity to this 
noble poem ; which to the Editor, seems more calcu- 
lated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season of 
real and pressing danger than any production of 
luodeni limes. 



June he was advised to go into .he country, and irn- 
Jiaiient of medical advice, as well as ol every species 
of control, he determined for himself to try the effects 
of bathing in the sea. Foi this purpose he took up his 
residence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles 
east of Dumfries, on the shore of the Solway-Firlh. 

It happened that at that time a lady with whom he 
had been connected in fiiendship by the sympathies 
of kindred genius, was residing in the itnniediate 
neighbourhood.* Being informed of his arrival, she 
invited him to dinner, and sent her carriage for hira 
to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to 
walk. " I was struck," says this lady, (in a confi- 
dential letter to a friend written soon after,) "with 
his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of 
death was imprinted on his features. He seemed al- 
ready touching the brink of eternity. His first saluta- 
tion was, ' Well, Madam, have you any commands 
fur the other world."" 1 replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and 
that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. 
(I was then in a bad state of health.) He looked in 
my lace with an air of great kindness, and expressed 
his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, 
and he complained of having entirely lost the tone ol 
his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation 
about his present situation, and the approaching ter- 
mination of al. nis earthly prospects. He spoke of his 
death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, 
but with firmness as well as feeling, as an event likely 
to happen very soon ; and which gave him concern 
chiefly from leaving his four children so young and 
unprotected, and his wife in so interesting a situation 
—in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. He 
mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the 
promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering 
marks of approbation he had received from his teach- 
ers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's 
future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family 
seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more per- 
haps from the reflection that he had not done them all 
the justice he was so well qualified to do. Passing 
from this subject, he showed great concern about the 
care of his literary fame, and particularly the publica- 
tion of his posthumous works. He said he was well 
aware that his death would occasion some noise, and 
that every scrap of his writing would be revived 
against him to the injury of his future reputation ; 
that letters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished 
to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by 
idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his re. 
sentment would restrain them, or prevent the cen- 
sures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious sar- 
casms of envy, from poui-ing forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epigrams 
on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, 
and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; 
and many indiffei'ent poetical pieces, which he feared 
would DOW, with all their imperfections on their head, 
be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply 
regretted having deferred to put his papers in a stale 
of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the 
exertion." The lady goes on to mention many other 
tapicsof a private nature on which he spoke. "The 
conversation," she adds, " was kept up with great 
evenness and animation on his side. 1 had seldom 
seen his mind greater or more collected. There was 
frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sal- 
lies, and they would probably have had a greater 
share, had not the concern and dejection I could not 
disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening of that 
day (the 5th Jiily, 1796 ;) the next day I saw him again, 
and we parted to meet no more !" 

* For a character of this lady, see letter, No. CXX 



40 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



At first Burns i:nagiiied batliiiig ;n the sea had been 
of beuetit to him : ihe pains in his hmbs were re- 
lieved ; but this was immediately followed by a new 
attack of lever. VViieii hrnught back to his own house 
in DurjtVies, on tlie ISlliol July, he was no longer able 
to stand upright. At this time a tremor per7aded his 
frame : his lonsue was parched, and his mind sunk 
into delirium, when not nnised by conversation. On 
the second and thini day the lever increased and his 
eirciigth diminisiied. On the fourth, the sufferings of 
this great but ill-fated genius, were terminated ; 
a life was closed in which virtue and passion had been 
at perpetual variance.' 

The death of Burns made a strong and general im 
pression on all who hud interested themselves in his 
character and especially on the inhabitants cf the 
town and County in which he had spent the latter years 
of his life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, 
they had not deprived him of the resjiect and regard 
entertained for the extraordinary powers of his genius, 
aod the generous qualities of his heart. 'I'he (ientle 
man Volunteers of Dumfries determined to bury their 
illustrious associate with military honours, and every 
preparation was made to render this last service sol- 
emn and impressive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus- 
shiie, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque 1 orts, 
at that time quartered in Dumfries, otfered their as- 
Bistdiice on this occasion the principal inhabitants of the 
town and neighbourhood determined to walk in the fu- 
neral pi ocession ; and a vast concourse of persons as- 
sembled, some of them ata considerable distance, to wit 
ness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On the eve- 
ning of the 25th of July, the remains of Burns were 
reniuved from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of 
Volunteers, selected to perform the military duty in 
the church-yard, stationed themselves in the front of 
the procession, with their arms reversed; the mairt 
body of the corps surrounded and eupported the coffin, 
on which were placed the hat and sword of their friend 
and fellow-soldier ; the numerous body of attendants 
rangeil themselves in the rear ; -A-hile the Fencible re- 
giments ofinfantry and cavalry lined the streets from 
the Townllall to the burial ground in the Southern 
. church-yard, a distance of more than half a mile, "fhe 
whole procession moved forward to that sublime and 
affecting strain of music, the Dead March in Saul ; and 
three volleys fired over his grave, marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle was-in a 
Jiigh degree grand and solemn, and accorded with the 
general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow which the 
occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the morn- 
ing of the day of her husband's funeral, Mrs. Burns 
Was undergoing the pains of labour ; and that during 
the solemn Service we have just been describing, the 
posthumous son of our poet wasborn. This infant 
b.iy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not des- 
tined to a long life. He has already become an iiihab- 
tant of the same grave with his celebrated father. The 
four other children of our poet, all sons, (the eldest at 
that time about ten years of age) yet survive, and give 
every promise of prudence and virtue tliat can be ex- 
pected from their tender years. They remain under 
the tare of their artectionaie mother in Dumfries, and 
enjoying the means of education which the excellent 
schools of that town afford ; the teachers of which, in 
Ihcir conduct to the cliildren of Burns, do themselves 
great honour. On this occasion the name of Mr. Whyte 
deserves to be particularly mentioned, himself a poet, 
as well as a man of science.! 



Of this sum, the part expended on bis library (which 
was far from extensive) and in the humble furniture of 
his house, remained ; ai.d oblieations were found for 
two hundred pounds advanced by him to the assist- 
ance of those to whom he was united by tlie ties o' 
blood, and still moie by those of esteem and affection. 
When it IS consideretl, that his expenses in Edinburgh 
and on his various journeys, could not be inconsidera- 
ble ; that his agricultural undertaking was unsuccess- 
j ful ; that his income from the excise was tor some 
time as low as filty, and never rose to above seventy 
pounds a year ; that his family was large, and his 
spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that his cir- 
cumstances were so poor, or that, as his health de- 
cayed his proud and feeling heart sunk under the se- 
cret consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions 
of absolute want. Yel poverty never bent the spirit of 
Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither chicanery 
nor sordidness ever appeared in his conduct. He car- 
ried his disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily to 
the world, and received with a jealous reluctance every 
offer of friendly assistance. His printed poems had 
procuredhim great celebrity, and ajusl and fair re- 
compense for the latter offspring of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In the year 
1795, the Editor of a London newspaper, high in iti 
character for literature, and independence of senti- 
ment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish 
them, once a week, with an article for their poetical 
department, and receive from them a recompense of 
fifty-two guineas per annum ; an offer which his pride 
of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had for several 
years furnished, and w.is at that time furnishing, the 
iV/(/se^OT of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without 
fee or reward, and was obstinately refusing all recom 
pense for his assistance to the greater work of Mr, 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of that gea- 
tlemau was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching dis- 
tress of his infant family, [iressed heavily or. Burns as 
he lay on the bed of death. Yet he alluded to his indi- 
gence, at times with something approaching to his 
wonted gayety. — " What business," said he to Dr. 
MaxweU, who attended him with the utmost zeal, 
" has a physician to waste his time on me .■" I am a 
poor pigeon, not worth plucking, Alas ! 1 have not 
feathers enough upon me to carry me to my grave." — 
And when his reason was lost in delirium his ideas 
ran in the same melancholy train ; the horrors of a 
j«il were continually present to his troubled imagi- 
nation, and prodixed the most affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death he had 
been incapable of the duties of his office. Burns dread- 
ed that his salary should be reduced one half as is usu- 
l in such cases. His full emoluments were, however, 
continued to him by the kindness of Mr. Stobbie a 
young expectant in the Excise, who performed the 
duties rji his office without fee or reward ; and Mr. 
Graham of Fintry, hearing of his illness, though unac- 
quainted with its dangerous nature, made an offer of 
stance towards procuring him the means of 
preserving hishealtli. Whatever might be the faults 
of Burns, ingiatitude was not of the number. — 
gsl his manuscripts, various proofs are found of 
nse he entertained of Mr. Graham's friendship, 
which delicacy towards that gentleman has induced 
ppress ; and on tiiis last occasion there is no 
doubt that his heart overflowed towards him, though 
he had no longer the power of expressing his feel- 
ngs.- 

Biirns diec in great poverty ; out the independence On the death of Burns the inhabitants of Dumfries 
of his spirit and the exemplary prudence of his wife, and its neighbourhood opened a subscription for the 
had preserved him from debt. He had received from I support of his wife and family ; and Mr. Miller. Mr. 
his poems a clear profit of about nine hundred pounds. I AIMurdo, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, and Mr. Cun- 

. ,_, . , .,, , , ^ningham, gentlemen of the first respectability, became 

* The particulars respecting tne illness and death of 

Burns, were obligingly furnished by Dr. Maxwell, the * The letter of Mr, Graham, alluded to above, is dat- 
physician who attended him. 1 gj on the 13lh of luly, and probably arrived on the 15lh. 

T Author of "St. Guerdon's Well," a poem; and Burns became delirious on the I7lh or '.Sth and died 
U ' AT. ibute to the Memory of Burns.'^ i on the 'iUt. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



41 



ti'ustees for the application of the money to its proper 
objects. The subsci-ipuoii was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly London 
and Liverpool. By thio means a sum was raised a- 
mounling to sever. Iiundred pounds ; and thus the wid- 
ow and children were rescued from iram»diate distress, 
and the most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, though 
equal to their present support, is insufficient to secure 
them from future penury. Their hope in regard to fu- 
turity depends on the favourable reception of these 
volumes from the public at large, in the promoting of 
wliich the candour and humanity of the reader may in- 
duce him tuk'ud his assistance. 

tiurns, as has already bten mentioned, was nearly 
live feet ten inches in height, and of a form that indi- 
cated agility as well as strength. His well-raised fore- 
head, shaded with black curling hair, indicated exten- 
sive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour 
and intelligence. His face was well formed ; and his 
countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. 
His mode of dressing, which was often slovenly, and a 
certain fulness and bend in his shoulders, characteris- 
tic of his original profession, disguised in some degree 
the natural symmetry and elegance of his form. The 
external appearance of Burns was most strikingly in- 
dicative of the character of his mind. On a lirst view 
his physiognomy had a certain air of coarseness, ming- 
led, however, with an expression of deep penetration, 
and of calm thoughttulness, approaching to melan- 
choly. There appeared in his first manner and ad- 
dress, perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern and 
almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, incompati- 
ble with openness and aftabilily, which, however, be- 
spoke a mind conscious of superior talents. Strangers 
that supposed themselves approaching an Ayrshire 
peasant who could make rhymes, and to whom their 
notice was an honour, found themselves speedily over- 
awed by the presence of a man who bore himself with 
dignity, and who possessed a singular power of correct- 
ing forwardness, and of reiielling intrusion. But 
though jealous of the respect due to himself. Burns 
never enforced it where he saw it was willingly paid ; 
and though inaccessible to the approaches of pride, he 
was open to every advance of kindness and of benevo- 
lence. His dark and haughty countenance easily re- 
laxed into a look of good-will, of pity, or of tenderness ; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each other in 
his mind, assumed with equal ease the expression of 
the broadest humour, of the most extravagant mirth, 
of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sublime 
emotion. The tones of his voice happily corresponded 
with the expression of his features, and with the fee- 
lings of his mind. When to these endowments are ad- 
ded a rapid and distinct apprehension, a most pow- 
erful understanding, and a happy command of lan- 
guage— of strength as well as brilliancy of expression 
— we shall be able to account for the extra- 
ordinary attractions of his conversation — for the sor- 
cery which in his social parlies he seemed to exert on 
all around him. In the company of women this sorce- 
ry was more especially apparent. Their jiresence 
charmed Hie fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and 
awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of 
his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, 
by restraining the vehemence and the exuberance of 
his language, at times gave to his manners the impres- 
bion of taste, and even of elegance, which in the compa- 
ny of men they seldom possessed. This influence was 
doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed 
to the best society, declared with characteristic naioc/e 
that no man's conversation ever carried herself so 
completely oj' her feet as that of Burns ; and an Eng- 
lish Lady, familiarly acquainted with several of the 
most distinguished characters of the present limes, as 
siired the Editor, that in the happiest of her social 
hours, there was a charm about Burns which she 
never seen e'jualled. This charm arose not more from- 
the powe.r than the versalility of his genius. No Ian 
guor could be fell in the society of a. man who jiassed 
at pleasure from grauj ':0 gny, from the ludicrous to 
the pathetic, from ti.e simple to the sublime; who 
wielded alt his faculties with equal strength and ease, 
and never failed to impress ihe oflspring of his fancy 
with the stamp of his understanding 



This indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest 
phasis. In large and mixed parties he was oltea si- 
lent ar.d dark, sometimes fierce and overbearing; he 
was jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealous to an 
extreme of the insolence of wealth, and prone tc 
avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality o, 
fortune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a sin- 
gular degree compassionate, he was on the other hand 
proud, irascible, and vindicaiive. His virtues and hi 
failings had their origin in the extraordinary sensibili- 
ty of his mind, and equally partook of the chills and 
glows of sentiment. His friendships were liable to in- 
terruption from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities 
died away under thi influence of pity or self-accusa- 
tion. His understanding was equal to the other pow- 
ers of his mind, and his deliberate opinions were singu- 
larly candid and just ; but, like other men of great and 
irregular genius, the opinions which he delivered iu 
conversation were often the ofl'spring of temporary 
feelings, and widely dill'erent from the calm decisions 
of his judgment. This was not merely true re- 
specting the characters of others, but in regard to 
some of the most important points of human spec- 
ulation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking proof of the 
strength of his understanding, than in the correct esti- 
mate he formed of himself. He knew his own failings ; 
he predicted their consequence ; the melancholy fore- 
boding was never long absent from his mind ; yet his 
passions carried hira down the stream of error, and 
swept him over the preci|>ice he saw directly in his 
course. The fatal defect in his character lay in the 
the comparative weakness of his volition, that superior 
faculty of the mind, which governing the conduct ac- 
cording to the dictates of the understanding, alone en- 
titles it to be denominated rational ; which is the pa- 
rent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; which, by 
regulating and combining human exertions, may be 
said to have effected all that is great in the works of 
man, in literature, in science or on the face of nature. 
The occupations of a poet aie not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the mind, or to 
Weaken that sensibility which requires perpetual con- 
trol, since il gives birth to vehemence of passion as 
well as to the higher powers ol imagination. Upfortu- 
nately the favorite occupations of genius are calculat- 
ed to increase all its peculiarities ; to nourish thai 
lofty pride which disdains the littleness of prudence, 
and the restrictions of order : and by indulgence, to in- 
crease that sensibility which, in the pre.sent form of 
our existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or hap- 
piness, even when accompanied with the choicest gifts 
of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend and associate 
of Burns,* and who has contemplated and explained 
the system of animated nature, that no sentient being 
wilh mental powers greatly superior to those of men, 
could possibly live and-be happy in this world — " If 
such a being really existed." continues he, "Ms 
misery would be extreme. Wilh senses more delicate 
and refined ; wilh percejitions more acute and pene- 
trating ; with a taste so exquisite that the objects 
around him would by no means gratify it ; obliged 
to feed on nourishment loo gross for his frame ; he 
must be born only to be miserable ; and the continu- 
ation of his existence would be utterly impossible. 
Even in our present condition, the sameness and the 
insipidity of objects and pursuius, the futility of 
pleasure, and the intinile sources of excruciating pain, 
are supportefl with great difficulty by cultivated and 
refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, continue 
the same obiects and situation, and no man could 
L'2ar to live. 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensation a» 



well as all our oilier powers, are 



adaiiifcd to the scene 



-Dt our existence ; that they are limited in mercy, as 
well as iu wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smcllie are not to be con- 
sidered as the dreams of a theorist ; they were proba- 

* Smellie— See his " Philosophy of Natural History.'" 



42 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



biy foum1e<1 on sad experience. The being he sup- 
poses, "with senses more ilelirate and refined, \.iUi 
perceptions more acute ajid penetrating," is to he 
found in real life. He is of the temperament of 
genius, and perhaps a poet. Isthere, then, no remedy 
for this inordinate sensibility ^ Are there no means 
by which the happiness of one so constituted by nature 
may be consulted.^ lerhaps it will be found, that 
regular and constant occupation, iritsome tliough it 
may at first be, is the true remedy. Occupation in 
■which the powers of the understanding are exercised, 
will diminish the force of external impressions, and 
keep the imagiHation under restraint. 

That the bent of every roan's mind should be fol- 
lowed in his education and in his destination in life, 
is a maxim which has been often repeated, but which 
cannot be admitted, witliout many restrictions. It 
may be generally true when applied to weak minds, 
which being capable of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that lit- 
tle is produced. But where indulgent nature has be- 
stowed her gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse 
of this maxim ought frequently to be the rule of con- 
duct. In minds of a higher order, the object of in- 
etruction and of discipline is very often to restrain, 
rather than to impel ; to curb the impulses of imagi- 
nation, so that the passions also may be kept under 
contrcl.* 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral point of 
▼iew, of studies of a severer nature, which while they 
inform the understanding, employ the volition, thai 
regulating power of the mind, which, like all our oth- 
er faculties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and honoura- 
ble fame, are wholly dependant. Hence also the ad- 
fantage of regular and constant application, which 
aids the voluntary power by the production of habits 
so necessary to the support of order and virtue, and so 
difficult to be formed in the temperament of genius. 

The man who is so endov/ed and so -egnlated. may 
pursue his course with confidence in almost any of the 
various walks of life which choice or accident shall 
open to him; and, provided he employs the talents 
he has cultivated, may hope for such imperfect happi- 
ness, and such limited success, as are reasonably to be 
expected from human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which procures per- 
K>ni\l respect, and which terminates in lasting reputa- 
tion, is seldom or never obtained by the excellence of 
a single faculty of mind. Experience teaches us, that 
it has been acquired by those only who have possessed 
the comprehension and the energy of general talents, 
and who have regulated then- application, in the line 
which choice, or perhaps accident, may have deter- 
mined, by the dictates of their judgment. Imagination 
is supposed, and with justice, to be the leading faculty 
of the poet. But what poet has stood the test of lime 
by the force of this single faculty ? Who does not see 
that Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of their 

* duinctilian discusses the important question, 
whether the bent of the individual's genius should be 
followed in bis education {an secundum sui guisque 
ingenii docendus sit naturam,) chiefly, indeed, with a 
reference to the orator, but in a way tliat admits of 
very general application. His conclusions coincide 
very much with those of the text. " An vero Isocra- 
tescum de Ephoroatque Theopompo sic judicaret, ut 
•aiterifrenis, alter i calcaribus opus esse diceret ; aut 
inillo lentioretarditatem, aut in illo pene praecipiti 
concilalionem adjuvandum docendo existimavit ? cum 
alteram allerius natura miscendum arbitraretur. Im- 
beciilis tamen ingeniis sane sic obsequendum, sit, ut 
ianlum in id quo vocat natura, ducautur. Ha euim, 
quod solum possunt, melius efficient." 

Inst. Orator, lib. ii. 9. 



species in understanding as well as in imagination ! 
that they were pre eminent in the highest species o| 
knowledge — the knowledge of the nature and charac- 
ter of man ? On the other hand, the talent of ratioci- 
nation is more especially requisite to the orator ; but 
no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by the 
highest excellence in this single talent. Who does not 
perceive that Demosthenes and Cicero were not more 
happy ill their addresses to the reason, than in their ap- 
peals to the passions ? They knew, that to extite, 
to agitate, and to delight, are among the most potent 
arts of persuasion ; and they enforced their impres- 
sion on the understanding, by their command of all 
the sympathies of the heart. These observations 
might be extended to other walks of life. He who has 
the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties 
which, duly governed, and differently directed, might 
lead to pre eminence in other, and, as far as respects 
himself, perhaps in happier destinations. 1'he talents 
necessary to the construction of an Iliad, under difl'er- 
eiit discipline and application, might have led armies 
to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have 
wielded the thunder of eloquence, or discovered iind 
enlarged the sciences that constitute the power an4 
improve the condition of our species.* Such talents 

* The reader must not suppose it is contendej 
that the same individual could have excelled in all 
these directions. A certain degree of instruction and 
practice is necessary to excellence in every one, and 
life is teo short to admit of one man, however great 
his talents, acquiring this in all of them. It is only 
asserted, that the same talents, diflerenlly applied, 
might have succeeded in any one, though perhaps, not 
equally well in each. And, after all, this position re- 
quires certain limitations, which the reader's candour 
and judgment will supply. In supposing that ag>-eat 
poet might have made a great orator, the physical 
qualities necessary to oratory are pre-supposed. In 
supposing that a great orator might have made a great 
poet, it is a necessary condition, that he should have 
devoted himself to poetry, and that he should have ac- 
quired a proficiency in metrical numbers, which by 
patience and attention may be acquired, though the 
want of it has embarrassed and chilled many of the 
first efforts of true poetical genius. In supposing that 
Homer might have led armies to victory, more indeed 
is assumed than the physical qualities of a general. 
To these must be added that hardihood of mind, that 
coolness in the midst of difficulty and danger, which 
great poets and orators are found sometimes, but not 
always to possess. The n;>*ure of the institutions of 
Greece and Rome produced more instances of single 
individuals who excelled in various departments of 
active and speculative life, than occur in modern Eu- 
rope, where the employments of men are more subdi- 
vided. Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity 
excelled in literature and in oratory. That they had 
the TTiiwds of great poets also, will be admitted, whea 
the qualities are justly appreciated which are necessa- 
ry to excite, combine, and command the active ener- 
gies of a great body of men, to rouse that enlhusiasra 
which sustains fatigue, hunger, and the inclemencies 
of the elements, and which triumphs over the fear of 
death, the most powerful instinct of our nature. 

Theauthority of Cicero may be appealed to in fa- 
vour of the close connexion between the poet and the 
orator. Est ertim finitimus oratori poeta, numeria 
adslrictiorpaulo, verborum autem licentia liberior, 
Ifc. De Oratore, Lib. i. e. 16. See also Lib. iii. c 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



are, imleed, rare among the productions of nature, 

bikI occssijiis of bi-ingin^ ihem into full exertion are 
raier siill. But safe and salutary occupanons may 
be fo.iiid for men of genius in every direction, wiiile 
tlie useful and ornamental arts remain to be eultiva- 
teti, wli:le the sciences reni.tin to be studied and to be 
extended, and principles of science to be applied to the 
correction and unprovement of art. In the tempera- 
ment of sensibility, which is in truth the temperament 
of general talents', the principal object of discipline and 
instruction is, as has already been mentioned, to 
strengthen the self-command ; and this may be pro- 
maled by the direction of tlie studies, more effectually 
perliaps'tlian has been g-nerally understood. 

If tliese obseivaiious be founded in truth, they may 
lead to practical cojiseqiences of some importance. U 
has been so much tlie custom to consider the posses- 
sion of poetical talents as excluding the possibility of 
application to the severer branches of study, as in 
some degree iucapaci'.aliiig the possessor from attain- 
ing those habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in the details of busi- 
ness, and in the engagements of active life. It has been 
coininun for persons conscious of talents, to look with 
a sort of disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- 
lence, and to consider themselves as in some degree 

7.— It is true the example of Cicero may be quoted 
against his opinion. His attempts in verse, which are 
praised by Phitarch, do not seem to have met the an- 
probation of Juvenal, or of some others. Cicero pro- 
bably did net take sufficient time to learn the art of 
the poet ; but that he had Ihe ajlatus necessary to 
poetical excellence, may be abundantly proved from 
his compositions in prose. On the other hand, nothing 
is more clear, than thai, in the character of a great 
poet, all the mental qualities of an orator are inclu- 
ded. It is said by GLuiiictilian, of Homer, Omnibus 
eloquenlioe parlibus exsmplum et orlum dedit. Lib. 
i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore recommended 
to the orator, as of the first importance. Of the two 
sublime poets in our own language, who are hardly 
inferior to Homer, Shakspcare ana Milton, a similar 
recommendation may be given. It is scarcely neces- 
sary to mention how much an acquaintance with them 
has availed the great orator who is now the pride and 
ornament of the English bar, a character that may be 
appealed to with singular propriety, when we are 
contending for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of the 
talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, 
painting, and war, will be admitted by some, who 
will be inclined to dispute the extension of the position 
to science or natural knowledge. On this occasion I 
may quote the following observations of Sir William 
Jones, whose own example will however far exceed in 
weight the authority of his precejits. " Abul Ola had 
so flourishing a reputation, that several persons of un- 
common genius were ambitious of learning the art of 
poetry from so able an instrucler. His most illustri- 
ous scholars were Feleki and Khakanl, who were no 
less eminent for their Persian compositions, than for 
their skill in every branch of pure and mixed matlie- 
matics, and particularly in astronomy; a striking 
proof that a sublime poet may become master of any 
kind of learning which he chooses to profess ; since a 
fine imagination, a lively wit, an easy and copious 
style, cannot possibly obstruct the acquisition of any 
science whatever ; but must necessarily assist him in 
nis studies, and shorten his labour."— Sir William 
Jones's Works^vol.u.p.ZVl, 



absolved from those rules of prudence by whicli hum- 
bler minds are restricted. They are too much dispos. 
ed to abandon themselves to their own sensations and 
to suHer life to pass away without regular exertions or 
settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally prone to in- 
dolence, with them indolence and unhappiness are in 
a more especial manner allied. The unbidden splen- 
dours of imagination may indeed at times irradiate the 
gloom which inactivity produces ; but such visions, 
though bright, are transient, and serve to cast Ihe re- 
alities of life into a deeper shade. In bestowing great 
talents, Nature seems very generally to have imposed 
on the possessor the necessity of exertion, if he would 
escape wretchedness. Better for him than sloth, toils 
the most painful, or adventures the most hazardous. 
Happier to him than idleness, were the condition of 
the peasant, earning with incessant labour his scanty 
food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard- 
arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. 

The observations might be amply illustrated by the 
biography of men of genius of every denomination, and 
more esjjecially by the biography of the poets. Of this 
last description of men, few seem to have enjoyed the 
usual portion of happiness that falls to the lot of hu- 
manity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry as 
an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from 
other occupations, or the small number who have en- 
gaged with success in the greater or more arduous at- 
tempts of the muse, in which all the faculties of the 
mind have been fully and permanently employed. — 
Even taste, virtue, and compaiative independence, do 
not seem capable of bestowing on men of genius, peace 
and tranquillity, without such occupation as may give 
regular and healthful exercise to the faculties of body 
and nimd. 'I'be amiable Shenstoiie has left us the re- 
cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his 
unhappiness, amidst the shades of the Leasowes ;* 
and '.he virtues, the learning, and the genius of Gray, 
equal to the loftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed 
to procure liiin in the academic bowers of Cambridge, 
that tranquillity and that resjject which less faslidi 
ousness of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of 
exertion would have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius should be 
aware of the importance ol Bell-command, and of exer 
lion, because their indolence is peculiarly exposed, 
not merely to unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and 
to errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. This 
interesting subject deserves a particular investigation ; 
but we must content ourselves with one or two cursory 
remarks. Relief is sometimes sought from the melan- 
choly of indolence in practices, which for a time sooth 
and gratify the sensations, but which in the end in- 
volve the sufferer in darker gloom. To command the 
external circumstances by which happiness is effected, 
is not in human power ; but there are various sub- 
stances in nature which operate on the system of the 
nerves, so as to give a fictitious gayely to the ideas of 
imagination, and to alter the effect of the external 
impressions which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
ployed for this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet 
and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohol, the principle 
of intoxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, is pi e- 
ferred in Europe, and is universally used in the Chris- 
tian world.* Cnder the various wounds to which iiv- 

* See his Letters, which, as a display of the effects 
of poetical idleness, are highly instructive. 

t There are a great number of other substances, 
which may be considered under this point of view. 
Tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of the number. These 
substances essentially difler from each other in their 
qualities ; and an inquiry into the particular effects 
of each on the health, morals, and happiness of those 
who use them, would be curious and useful. The ef- 
fects of wine an<l of opium on the temperament and 
sensibility, the Editor intended to have discussed iu 



44 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



dolent sensibility is exposed, and under tue gloomy 
apprehensions rfspectiiig t'uturily to which it is olleii a 
prey, how strong is Itie tenipialioii to have recourse 
lo an antidote by which the pain ot those wounds is 
suspended, by wincli the licari is exhilarated, visions 
yl liappincss are excited in tlie mind, and the iorms ot 
external nature clothed with new beauty 1 

" Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care j 
And what was difficult, and what was dire. 
Yields lo your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head—— 



Morning comes ; your cares retnrn 

With ten fold rage. An £.nxious stomach well 
Maybe endured ; so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium ; such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans yunrsoul, as mi.d'ning Pentheus fell, 
When, baited round Cithseron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 

Armstrong's Art of Prtsei-ving Health. 

Such arc the pleasures and the pains of intoxication, 
es they occur in the temperament of sensibility, des 
cribed by a genuine poet, with a degree of truth and 
energy which nothing but experience could have dicta- 
ted. There are, indeed, some individuals of this tem- 
perament on whom wine produces no cheering influ- 
eiicj. On some, even in very moderate quantities, its 
etfects are painfully irritating ; in large draughts it ex- 
cites dark and melancholy ideas : and in draughts still 
larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. Such men are 
happily exempted from a temptation, to which expe- 
rience teaches us the finest dispojitions often yield, and 
the influence of which, when strengthened by habit, it 
is a humiliating truth, that the most powerful minds 
have not been able to resist. 

this place at some length ; but he found the subject too 
extensive and ton professional to be introduced with 
propriety. The difliculty of abandoning any of these 
narcotics (if we may so term them,) when inclination 
is strengthened by habit, is well known. Johnson, in 
hia distresses, had experienced the cheeringbut treach- 
erous influence of wine, and by a powerful effort aban- 
doned it. He was obliged, however, to use tea as a 
8:ibstitute, and this was the solace to which he con- 
stantly had recourse under his habitual melancholy. 
The praises of wine form many of the most beaiitifnl 
lyrics of the poets of Greece and Rome, and of modern 
Europe. Whether opium, which produces visions still 
more ecstatic, has been the theme of the eastern poems, 
1 do not know. 

Wine is drunk in small quantities at a time, in 
company, where, for a time, it promotes harmony 
and social affection. Opium is swallowed by the 
Asiatics in full doses at once, and the inebriate re- 
tires to the solitary indulgence of his delicious imagi- 
nations. Hence the wine drinker appears in a supe- 
rior light to the imbiber of opium, a distinction which 
he owes more to the /orm than to the quality of his 
liquor. 



It is the more necessary for men of genius to b* 
on their guard against the habitual use of wine, be- 
cause it IS apt lu steal on them insensibly : and be 
cause the temptation to excess usually presents il*elf 
to liiem in their social hours, when they are alive only 
to warm and generous emotions, and when prudence 
and moderation are often contemned as selfishness and 
timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard against ex- 
cess in the use of wine, because on them its effects are, 
physically and morally, in an especial manner injuri- 
ous. Ill proportion to its stimulating influence on the 
system (on which the pleasurable sensations depend,) 
is the debility that enaoes ; a debility that destroys 
digestion, and terminates in habitual fever, dropsy, 
jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of 
the booy decays, ihe volition fails ; in proportion as 
the sensations are soothed and gratified, the seiisi 
bility increases ; and morbid sensibility is the parent 
of indolence, because, while it impairs the regulatin;; 
power of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles lo 
exertion. Activity, perseverance, and self command, 
become moie and more dilficult, and the great purposes 
of utility, patriotism, or ol honourable ambition, which 
had occupied the iinaginatioa, die away in fi iiitless le- 
solutions or in feeiile efforts. 

To apply these obiervatinns to the subject ef our me- 
moirs, would be a useless as well as a painful task. 
It is, indeed, a duly we ow« to the living, not lo allow 
o^r admiration of great genius, or even our pity for its 
unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. But 
there are sentiments of respect, and even of tender- 
ness, with which this duly should be performed ; there 
is an awful sanctity which invest the mansions of the 
dead : and let those who moralize over the graves of 
their contemporaries, reflect with humility on their 
own errors, nor forget how soon they may themselves 
require the candour and the sympathy they are called 
upon to bestow. 



SOON after the death of Burns, the following arti- 
cle appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from which it 
was copied into the ^•Minburgh newspapers, and into 
various other periodical publications, his from the 
elegant pen of a lady already alluded to in the course 
of ihese memoirs,' whose exertions for the family of 
our bard, ill the circles of literature and fashion in 
which she moves, have done her so much honour. 

" The attention of the public seems to be much oc- 
cupied at present with the loss it has recently sustain ■ 
ed in the death of the Caledonian poet, Bobert Burns ; 
a loss calculated to be severely felt ;nroughout the lit- 
erary world, as well as lamented in the narrowar 
sphere of private friendship. It was not, Iherelore, 
probable, ihatsuch an event should be longiinattendeii 
with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anec- 
dotes and memoirs which are usually circulated im- 
mediately alter the death of every rare and celebrated 
personage ; 1 had, however, conceivsd no intention of 
a|ipropriating to myself the privilege of criiicising 
Burns's writings and character, or of anticipating on 
the province of a biographer. 



" Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to do jus- 
lice to such a subject, 1 shouldhave continued wholly 
silent, had misrepiesentation and calumnly been less 
industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than aflec- 
tion for the memory of a friend, must now justify my 
offering to the public a few at least of those observa- 
tions which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, 
and the ireqnent opportunities 1 have had of observing 
equally his happy qualities and his failings for several 
years past, have enabled me to communicate. 

" It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's 
character, notoiily by fuluregenerations and foi'et^n 
countries, but even tjy his nalive Scotland, and per- 
haps a number of his contemporaries, that iie Js geiK<r- 



■ See p. 38. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



46 



•lly talkedof and considered, with reference to his po- 
etical talents o«/y; for the lact is, even allowing his 
IXeat and original genius its due tribute of admiration, 
that poetry (I apijeal to all who have had the advan- 
tage of being personally acquainted with him) was ac- 
tually not i\\s forte. Many others, perhaps, may 
have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Par- 
nassus, but none certainly ever outshone Burns ill tlie 
charms — the sorcery, I would almost call it, of fasci- 
nating conversation, the spontaneous eloquence of so- 
cial argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant 
repartee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with 
a larger portion of the 'vividavis animi.' His per. 
soiial endowments w»re perfectly correspondent to the 
qualifications of his mind ; his form was manly ; his 
action, energy itself ; devoid in a great measure per- 
haps of those graces, of that polish, acquired only in 
llie refinement of societies where in early life he could 
have no opportunities of mixing ; but where such was 
the irresistible power of attraction that encircled him, 
though his appearance and manners were always pe- 
culiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His 
figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destina- 
tion and employments. It seemed rather moulded by 
nature for the rough exercises of agriculture, than the 
gentler cultivation of the Belles Letters. His features 
were stamped with the hardy character of indepen- 
dence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arro- 
g.uit, pre-eminence ; the animated expressions ot 
countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the ra- 
pid lightnings of his eyes were always the harbingers 
of some flash of genius, whether they darted the fiery 
glances of insulted and indignant superiority, or beam- 
ed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and im- 
petuous affections. His voice alone could improve up- 
on tne magic of his eye : sonorous, replete with the 
finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear 
wiih the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic 
patriotism. The keenness ot satire was, I am almost 
at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for 
tliungh nature had endowed him with a portion of the 
most pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, he 
siitl'ered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and 
sometimes unfounded animosities. It was not always 
that sportiveness of humour, that ' unwary pleasantry' 
which SUrne has depicted with touches so conciliato- 
ry, but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed 
as the caprice of the instant suggested, or as the alter- 
cations of parties and of persons happened to kindle 
the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit 
(which is no usual matter indeed) had always the start 
of his judgment, and would lead him to the indulgence 
of raillery uniformly acute but often unaccompanied 
with the least desire to wound. The suppression of 
an arch and full-pointed bon-mot, from the dread of 
offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calen- 
dar of Snitits ; if so, Burns must not oe too severely 
dealt with for being rather deficient in it. He paid for 
his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. 
' 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic,' to say of him, as 
was said of Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes he got a 
hundred enemies :' but much allowance will be made 
by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit 
whom ' distress had spited with the world,' and which 
unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pursuits, con- 
tinually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardnes-3 of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes 
and temper was indeed checked by almost habitual 
disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart that 
acknowledged the ruling passion of independance, 
without ever having been placed beyond the grasp of 
penury. His soul was never languid or inactive, and 
his genius was extinguished only with the last spark 
of retreating life. His passions rendered him, accord- 
ing ao they clisclosed themselves in affection or antipa- 
thy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, orof decided 
enmity ; tor he possessed none of that negative insi- 
piditv of character, whose love might be regarded with 
indifference, or whose resentment could be considered 
with contempt. In this, it should seem, the temper of 
his associates took the tincture from his own ; lor At 
acknowledged in the universe but two classes of objects, 
those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the 



most uncontrollable ; and it has «een frequently a re- 
proach to him, that, unsusceptible of indiBerence, 
often hating where he ought only to have despised, he 
alternately opened his heart and poured forth the trea- 
sures of his understanding to such as were incapable 
of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to the 
privileges of an adversary some who were unqualified 
in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- 
guished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson profess- 
ed to 'love a good hater,' — a temperament that would 
have singularly adapted him to cherish a prepossession 
in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short 
even of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long 
as the disposition to ill-will continued ; but the warmth 
of his passions was fortunately corrected by their ver- 
satility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in 
his resentments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, 
not inviolably faithful in his engagements of friendship. 
Much, indeed, has been said about his inconstancy 
and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe that they 
originated less in a levity of sentiment, than from an 
extreme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered him 
prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neg- 
lect, scorn, or unkindness, took their measure of as- 
perity from the overflowings of the opposite sentiment 
which preceded them, and which seldom failed to re- 
gain its ascendency in his bosom on the return of calmer 
reflection. He was candid and manly in the avowal 
of his errors, and Ais avowal was & reparation. His 
native JUrle never forsaking him for a moment, the 
value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced ten- 
fold towards a generous mind, from its never being at- 
tended with servility. His mind, organized only for 
the stronger and more acute operations of the pas- 
sions, was impracticable to the etl'oris of supercilious- 
ness that would have depressed it into humility, and 
equally superior to the encroachments of venal sugges- 
tions that might have led him into the mazes of hypoc- 
risy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from averse 
to the incense of flattery, and could receive it tem- 
pered with less delicacy than might have been ex- 
pected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in 
that way himself; where he paid a compliment, it 
might indeed claim the power of intoxication, as ap- 
probation from him was always an honest tribute from 
the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been 
sometimes represented by those who it would seem, 
had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope 
wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably be- 
stowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, 
that the history of the Ayrshire plough-boy was an in- 
genious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtain- 
ing the interest of the great, and enhancing the merits 
of what required no foil. The Cotter's SatuTday 
Night, Tarn o' Shanter, and The Mountain Daisy, 
besides a number of later productions, where the matu- 
rity of his genius will be readily traced, and which will 
be given to the public as soon as his friends have coU 
lecled and arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- 
selves I and had they fallen from a hand more digni- 
fied in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, they 
had, perhaps, bestowed as unusual a grace there, as 
even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from 
whence they realy sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burn's education, and to 
the laborious, though honourable station of rural in- 
dustry, in which his parentage enrolled him, almost 
every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give tes- 
timony. His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayr- 
shire, at a farm near Mauchline;* and our poet' i 
eldest son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dis 
positions already prove him to be lu some measuie the 

* This very respectable and very superior man is 
now removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents lands on the 
estate of Closeburn, and is a tenant of the venera'jl* 
Dr. Montcilh, 1800.) E. 



46 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



inheritor of his father's talents as well as indigence) 
has been destined by his family to the humble employ- 
meut of the loom.* 

" That Burns had received no classical education, 
and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman au- 
thors only through the medium of translations, is a 
fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing 
with him might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, 
seldom observed him to at a loss ia conversation, un- 
less where the dead languages and their writers have 
been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed 
him to tell me why he never applied himself to acquire 
the Latin, in particular, a language which his happy 
memory would have soon enabled him to be master 
oi, ne used only to reply with a smile, that he had al- 
ready learned all the Latin he desired to know, and 
that was omnia vincit amor ; a sentence, that from his 
writings and most favourite pursuits, it should un- 
doubtedly seem that he was most thoroughly versed in : 
hut I really believe his classic erudition extended little, 
if any, further. 

" The penchant Bums had uniformly acknowledged 
for the festive pleasures of the table, and towards the 
fairer objects of nature's creation, has been the rally- 
ing point from whence the attacks of his censors have 
been uniformly directed : and to these, it must be con- 
fessed, he showed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces 
blend with alternate happiness of description, the frolic 
epirit of the flowing bowi, or melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty 
always taught him to pour forth his own. But who 
would wish to reprove the feelings he has consecrated 
with such lively touches of nature .-' And where is the 
rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to, ' chill 
the genial current of the soul,' as to regret that Ovid 
ever celebrated his C'oriuna or that Auacreon sung be- 
neath his vine ? 

" I will not, however, undertake to be the apologist 
of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though 
I believe it is as certain that genius never was free from 
irregularities, as that their absolution may, in a great 
measure, be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evi- 
dent that the world had continued very stationary in 
its intellectual acquit ements, had it never given birth 
«o any but men of plain sense. Evemiess of conduct, 
and a due regard to the decorums of the world, have 
been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius, 
that some have gone so far as to say, though there 1 
cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompa- 
tible, besides the frailties that cast their shade over the 
splendour of superior merit, are more conspicuously 
glaring than where they are the atteiidants of mere 
mediocrity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed to 
see the dust ; the pebble may be soiled, and we never 
regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius too often 
yield the soul to the wild eflervescence of desires, al- 
ways unbounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to 
the repose of others as fatal liy its own. No wonder, 
then, if virtue herself be sometimes lost in tlie blaze of 
kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of rea 
son are not invariably found sufficient to fetter an ima- 
gination, which scorns the narrow limits and restric 
.ions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. 
The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschool- 
ed in the rigid precepts of philosophy, too often unable 
to control the passions which proved a source of fre- 
quent errors and misfortunes to him, Burns made his 
own artless apology in language more impressive than 
all the argumentatory vindications in the world could 
do. in one of his own poems, where he delineates the 
gradual exi>ansion of his mind to the lessons of the ' tu- 
telary muse,' who concludes an address to her pupil, al- 
most unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, A-ith 
ihese lines : 

" I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by fancy 's meteor ray 

By passion driven ; 

• 1 his destination is now altered. (1800.) F. 



But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven."* 

" I have already transgressed beyond the bounds 1 
had proposed to myself, on first committing this sketch 
to paper, which comprehends what at least I have been 
led to deem the leading features of Buriis's mind and 
character : a literary critique 1 do not aim at; mine 
is wholly fulfilled, if in these pages I have been able to 
delineate any of those strong t.-aits, which raised him 
from the plough, where he passed the bleak morning of 
his lile, weaving his rude wreath of posy with the wild 
field-flowers that sprang around his cottage; to that en- 
viable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will 
long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude ; 
and pi-oudly remember, that beneath her cold sky a 
genius was rij-ened, witiioutcare or culture, that 
would have done honour to climes more favoiu-able to 
those luxuries — that warmth uf colourinfi and fancy 
ia which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in the pub- 
lic prints, ever since the idea of sending this sketch to 
some one of them was formed 1 find private animosities 
have not yet subsided, and that envy has not exhaust- 
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest 
fame will be permanently aSixed to Burns's charac- 
ter, which 1 think it will be found he has merited by 
the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And 
where a recollectiou of the imiirudence that sullied his 
brighter qualifications interpose, let the imperfections 
of all human excellence be remembered at the same 
time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately 
exalted his nature into the seraph, and sunk it ag»=u 
into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investi 
gate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

' Where they alike in trembUng hope repose, 
— The bosom of his father and his God.' 



Annandale, Aug. 7, 16S6. 



GRAY'S ELEGY. 



After this account of the life and personal character 
of Burns, it may be expected that some inquiry should 
be made into his literary merits. It will not, however, 
be necessary to enter very minutely into this investiga- 
tion. If fiction be, as some suppose, the soul of poetry, 
no one had ever less pretensions to the name of poet 
than Burns. Though he has displayed gieai powers 
of imagination, yet the subject on which he has writ- 
ten, are seldom, itever, imaginary ; his poems, as well 
as his letters, may be considered as the efl'usions of his 
sensibility, and the transcript of his own musings on 
the real incidents of his humble life. If we add, that 
they also contain most happy delineations of the cha- 
racters, manners, and scenery ihat presented them, 
selves to his observation, we shall include almost all 
the subjects of his muse. His writings may, therefore, 
be regarded as afl'ording a great part of thedata on 
which our account of his personal character has been 
founded ; and most of the observations we have appli- 
ed to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to 
the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his original 
station in life, was not more evident on his form and 
manners, than on his poetical productions. The inci- 
dents which form the subjects of his pnems, though 
some of them highly interesting, and susceptible of 
poetical imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant 
who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness of his con- 
dition, nor to throw into shade the circumstances at- 
tending it, -which more feeble or more artificial minds 
would have endeavoured to conceal. The same rude- 
ness and inattention appears in the formation of his 
rhymes, which are frequently incorrect, while the 
measure in which many of the poems are written, has 
little of the pomp or harmony of modern versification, 
and is indeed to an English ear, strange and uncouth, 
The greater part of his earliei' poems are written in 
;he dialect of his country, which is obsjure, if not 
Liainielligible '.o Enghshmeu ; and which, though it 

• Vide the Visiou— Duan 2d. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



47 



•till adheres more or less to the speech of almost ev- 
ely Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are 
now endeavouring to banish from their toiig.ies as 
Weil as their writings. The use of it in composition 
naiiii ally therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in the 
mind. These singularities are increased by the 
character of the poet, who delights to express him- 
self with a simpHcity that approaches to nakedness, 
and with an uinneaaured energy that often alarms 
rielicacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap- 
piuaclnng him, the first impression is perhaps repu!- 
si^e : there is an air of coarseness about him which is 
dhlicultly reconciled with our established notions ef 
poetical excellence. 

As the reader however becomes better acquainted 
with the poet, the etlects of his peculiarities lessen. 
He perceives in his poems, even on the lowest subjects, 
expressions of sentiment, and delineations of man- 
ners, which are higldy interesting. The scenery he 
describes is evidently taken from real life ; the cha- 
racters he introduces, and the incidents he relates, 
have the impression olnatm-e and truth. His humour, 
though wild and unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, 
and is sometimes heightened in its effects by the in- 
troduction of emotions of tenderness, with which 
genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is this the 
extent of his power. The reader, as he examines 
farther, discovers that the poet is not confined to the 
descriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
found, as occasion ofl'ers, to rise with ease into the 
terrible and the sublime. Every where he appears 
devoid of artifice, performing what he attempts with 
little apparent effort ; jnd impressing on the oBspring 
of ftis fancy the stamp of his understanding. The 
reader, capable of forming a just estimate of poetical 
talents, discovers in these circumstances marks of 
uncommon genius, and is willing to investigate more 
minutely its nature and its claims to originality. This 
last point we shall exaitiine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a classical 
education, or of any degree of acquaintance vfiththe 
Crreek or Roman writers in their original dress, has 
a])peared in the history of his life. He acquired in- 
deed some knowledge of the French language, but it 
does not appear that he was ever much conversant in 
Prencli literature, nor is there any evidence of his 
having derived any of his poetical stores from that 
source. With the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the effects of this 
acquaintance are observable in his latter productions ; 
but the character and style of his poetry were formed 
very early, and the model which he followed, in as 
far as he can be said to have had one, is to be sought 
for in the woi-ks of the poets who have written in the 
Scottish dialect — in the works of such of them more 
especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- 
land. Some observations on these may form a proper 
introduction to a more particular examination of the 
poetry of Burns. The studies of the Editor in this 
direction are indeed very recent and very imperfect. 
It would have been imprudent for him to have entered 
on this subject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ram. 
say, of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
acknowledge, and to whom the reader must ascribe 
whatever is of any value in the following imperfect 
sketch of literary compositions in the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circunjstance not a little curious, and which 
does not seem to be satisfactorily explained, that in 
the thirteenth century, the language of the two Brit- 
ish nations, if at all'different, differed only in the di- 
alect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welsh and Armo- 
ric in the other, being confined to the mountainous 
riislrict.s.* The English under the Edwards, and the 
Scots under Wallace and Bruce,'spoke the same lan- 
guage. We may observe also, that in Scotland the 
history of poetry a.scends to a period nearly as remote 
as in England. Barbour, and Blind Harry, James the 
First, Dunbar, Douglas and Lindsay, who lived in the 
fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteentii centuries, were 

• Historical Essay on Scottish Song, p. 16, by M. 



coeval with the fathers of poetry in England ; and .n 
the opinion of Mr. Wharton, not inferior to Ihein ia 
genius or in composition. Though the language of the 
two countries gradually deviated I'rom each other du- 
ring this period, yet the difference on the whole was 
not considerable ; not perhaps greater than between 
the different dialects of the difterent parts of England 
in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the lan- 
guage of Scotland was in a flourishing condition, 
wanting only writers in prose equal to those in verse. 
Two circumstances, propitious on the whole, operated 
to prevent this. The first was tlie passion of the Scots 
for composition in Latin ; and the second, the acces- 
sion of James ihe Sixth to the English throne. It may 
easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his 
admirable talents, even in part, to the cultivations of 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in that lan- 
guage which might have incited other men of geniua 
to have followed his examj/le," and given dtiraiion to 
the language itself'. The union of the two crowns in 
the person of James, overthrew all reasonable expec- 
tation of this kind. That monarch seated on the En- 
glish throne, would no longer suffer himself to bead- 
dressed in the rude dialect in which the Scottish dor 
gy had so often iusuited his dignity. He encouraged 
Latin or English only, both of which he prided him- 
self on writing with purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke 
with a Scottish- idiom and intonation to the last. 
Scotsmen of talents declined writing in their native 
language, which they knew was not acceptable to their 
learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time when 
national prejudice and enmity prevailed to a great 
degree, they disdained to study the niceties of the 
English tongue, though of so much easier acquisitiou 
than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond, 
of Hawthorndeii, the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry 
in those limes, were exceptions. They studied the 
language of England, and composed in it with preci- 
sion and elegance. They were however the last of 
their countrymen who deserved to be considered as 
poets in that century. The muses of Scotland sunlc 
into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a 
period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this extreme 
dejiression among a people, comparatively learned, 
enterprising, and ingenious.' Shall we impute it to 
the fanaticism of the covenanters, or to the tyranny of 
the house of Stuart, after their restoration to the 
throne i Doubtless these causes operated, but they 
seem unequal to account for the effect. In England, 
similar distractions and oppression took place, yet po- 
etry flourished there in a remarkable degree. During 
this period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden sung, 
and Milton raised his strain of unparalleled grandeur, # 
To the causes already mentioned, another must be 
added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men of genius 
to employ. The civil wars had frightened away the 
Latin Muses, and no standard had been established 
of the Scottish tongue, which was deviating still far- 
ther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland maybe dated 
from the establishment of the union, or rathei- from 
the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The nations 
being finally incorporated, it was clearly seen that 
their tongues must in the end incorporate also ; or 
rather indeed that the Scottish langu-age must degene- 
rate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by tho.se 
who would aim at distinction in letters, or rise tc emi- 
nence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius appeared, 
who studied the English classics, and imitated their 
beauties-, in the same manner as they studied the clas 
sics of Greece and Rome. They had admirable models :i 
composition lately presented to them by the writers 'it 

* e. g. The Authors of the Delicias Poctarum Sco- 
tOTum, S>ic. 



48 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



the reign of Q.ueen Anne ; particularly in the periodi- 
cal papers published by Steele, Addison, and their as- 
sociated friends, which circulated widely through 
Scotland, and diffused every where a taste for purity 
of style- and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. 
At length the Scottish writers succeeded in English 
composition, and a union was formed by the liteiary 
talents, as well as of the legislatures of the two nations. 
On this occasion the poets took the lead. While 
Henry, Home,' Dr. Wallace, and their learned associ- 
ates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and 
studying to clear themselves of their Scottish idioms, 
'i'hoinson. Mallet, and Hamilton of Bangour had made 
their appearance before the public, and been enrolled 
on the list of Knglish poets. The writers in prose fol- 
lowed d numerous and powerful band, and poured 
their ample stores in the general stream of British lit- 
erature. Scotland possessed her four universities be- 
fore the accession of James to the English throne. Irn- 
mediately before the union, she acquired her parochi- 
al schools. These establishments combining happily 
together, made the elements of knowledge of easy ac- 
quisition, and presented a direct path, by which the 
ardent student might be carried along into the re- 
cesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, 
and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider 
field was opened to literary ambition, and the iuflu- 
eiice of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on the 
productions of the press, became more and mure appa- 
rent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establishment of 
the parochial schools produced efl'ects on the rural 
muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been 
suspected, and which, though less splendid in their 
nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, 
whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the 
people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the original 
inhabitants of the British isles possessed a peculiar 
and interesting species of music, which being banished 
from the plains by the successive invasions of the Sax- 
ons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the 
native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the moun- 
tains of Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scot- 
tish, and the Welsh music differ, indeed, from each 
other, but the difference may be considereil as in dia- 
lect only, and probably produced by the influence of 
time, and like the difterent dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the Scottish 
music must be more immediately of Highland origin, 
and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character 
Bomewhat distinct, must have descended from the 
mountains in remote ages. Whatever credit maybe 
given to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scottish pea- 
santry have been long in possession of a number of 
• songs and ballads composed in their native dialect, 
and sung in their native music. The subjects ot these 
compositions are such as most interested the simple 
inhabitants, and in the succession of time vari'-.d prob- 
ably as the condition of the society varied. During 
the separation and the hostility of the two nations, 
these songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect docu- 
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; such 
as the Haiitis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlow. 
After the union of the two crowns, when a certain de- 
gree of peace and of tranquillity took place, the rural 
muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. "In the 
want of real evidence respecting the history of our 
songs," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, "recourse 
may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to 
think that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union of the 
crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, who had for- 
merly been warriors from choice, and husbandmen 
from necessity, either quitted the country, or were 
transformed into real shepherds, easy in their circum 
•tances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of 
that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by 
Froissart, remained, sufficient to inspire elevation of 
•e^'Jment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 

• Lord Kairaes, 



familiarity and kindness which had long lubsiatedb*- 
between the gentry and the peasantry, could not all at 
once be obliterated, and this connexion tended tp 
sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, eaw 
and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music, 
would still maintain its ground, though it would natur- 
ally assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
Slate of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales 
used once to rouse the borderers like the trumpet's 
sound, had been by an order of the legislature (in 
1579,) classed with rogues and vagabonds, antl at- 
tempted to be sujipressed. Knox and his disciples in- 
fluenced the Scottish parliament, but contended in 
vain wiih her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, 
probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
tributary streams, one or more original geniuses may 
have arisen, who were destined to give a new turn to 
the taste of their countrymen. They would see that 
the events and pursuits which chequer'piivate life were 
the proper subjects for popular poetry. Love, which 
had formerly held a divided sway with glory and am- 
bition, became now the master passion of the soul. To 
portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a 
hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast 
of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, affords ample 
scope to the rural poet. Love-songs of which Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might be com- 
posed by an uneducated rustic with a slight tincture of 
letters; or if in these songs, the character of the rustic 
be sometimes assumed, the truth of character, and 
the language of nature, are preserved. With unaffect- 
d simplicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the hearts of a cruel and coy mistress, 
regain a fickle lover. Even In such as are of a me- 
lancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dis- 
pels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes 
the sweetest of the Highland luinngs, or vocal airs. — 
Nor are these songs all plaintive; many of them are 
lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse 
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine de^ 
criptions of the manners of an energetic and sequester- 
ed people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though 
in their portraits some objects are brought into open 
view, which more fastidious painters wou'd have 
thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement not for 
gain, their effusions seldom excR^.ded a. love-song, or a 
ballad of satire or humour, wnich, iike the works of 
theelder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, 
but treasured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned, nor pat- 
ronized by the great, these rustic bards lived and died 
in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, 
and even their very names have been foigotten.* When 
proper models for pastoral songs were produced, there 
would be no want of imitators. To succeed in this 
species of composition, soundness of understanding, 
and sensibility of heart were more requisite than 
flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. Great 
changes have certainly taken place in Scottish song- 
writing, though we cannot trace the steps of change ; 
and few of the pieces admired in Q,ueep Mary's tinie 
are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is 
possible, though not probable, that the music may have 
remained nearly the same, though the words to the 
tunes were entirely new-moddled."t 

These conjectures are highly ingeniouB. It cannot 
however, be presumed, that the state of ease and tran- 

* In the Pepys Collection, there are a few Scottish 
songs of the last century, but the names of the author* 
are not preserved. 

t Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre 
to the Editor, Sept. 11, 1799.— In the Bee, vol. ii. is a 
communication to Mr. Ramsay, under the signature o< 
J. Runcole, which enters into this subject somewhat 
more at large. In that paper he gives his reasons for 

I questioning the antiquity of many of the most celebra* 
ted Scottish sang*. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



id 



ix'UH* iesenbeflf by Mr.' Ramsay, took place among verses worthy of the melodies they accompanied, 



.b« Scottish peasantry immediately on the union of ihe 
erowii», or indeed during the greater part of the seven- 
teencQ century. The Scottish nation, through ^11 its 
rankj, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the 
religious persecutions which succeeded each other in 
tnai Qiaasterous period ; it was not till alter the revo- 
lution in 16S8, and the subsequent establishment of 
their beloved form of church government, that the 
peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative re- 
pose ; and it is since that period", that a great number 
of the most admired Scottish songs have been produc- 
ed, though the tunes to which they are sung, are in 
genera; of much greater antiquity. It is not unrea- 
sonable to suppose that the peace and security derived 
from the Revolution and the Union, produced a favour- 
able change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it 
can scarcely be doubted, that the institution of parish- 
schools in 1696, by which a certain decree of instruc- 
tion was diffused universally among ihe peasantry, 
contributed to this happy effect 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramssy, the Scot- 
tish Theocritus. He was born on the high mountains 
that divide Clydesdale and Aimandale, in a small 
hamlet on the banks of Glangonar, a stream which 
descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are 
still shown to the inquiring traveller.* He was the 
son of a peasant, and probably received such instruc- 
tion as his parish school bestowed, and the poverty of 
his paients admitted.! Ramsay made his appearance 
in Edinburgh in the beginning of the present century, 
in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber, 
or peruke maker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen 
years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his 
BOCiai disposition, and his talent for the composition of 
Terses in his Scottish idiom; and, changing his pro- 
fession for that of a bookseller, he became intimate 
»'ilh many of the literary, as well as of the gay and 
fashionable characters of his tirae.J Having published 
ftvoiuraeof poems of his own in 1721, which was fa- 
vourably received, he undertook to make a collection 
of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- 
Green, and was afterwards encouraged to present to 
the world a collection of Scottish songs. " From what 
eources ie procured them," says Mr. Ramsay of Och- 
lertyre," whether whom tradition or manuscripts, is 
uncertain. As in the Ever-Green he made some rash 
attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient 
poems, he probably used still greater freedom with the 
Bor.gi and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be 
known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs print- 
ed by him, more ancient than the present (century, 
shall be produced; or access be obtained to his own 
papers, if they are still in existence. To several tunes 
which either wanted words, or had words that were 
improper or imperfect, he, or his friends, adapted 

* See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 
185, 

t The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a work- 
man in the lead-mines of the Earl of Hopeton, at 
Lead hills. The workmen in those mines at present 
are of a very superior character to miners in general. 
They have only six hours of labour in the day, and 
have time for reading. They have a common library, 
supported by contribution, containing several thou- 
sand volumes. When this was instituted I have not 
learned. These miners are said to be of a very sober 
and moral character : Allan Ramsay, when very young 
is supposed to have been a washer of ore in these 



t " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club 
of small wilB, who about 1719, published a very poor 
miscellany, to which Dr, Young, the nuthor of the 
l^i^ht Thoughtt prtftxed a copy of verses." Ex- 
tract of a Istter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre to the 
Editor. 



thy indeed of the golden age. These verses were per» 
fectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by 
persons of taste, who regarded them as the geuuioe 
offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects Ram- 
say had advantages not possessed by poets writing ia 
the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect 
ot Cumberland or Lancashire could never be popular, 
because these dialects have never been spoken by per 
sons of fashion. But till the middle of the present cen 
tury, every Scotsman from the peer to the peasant, 
spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the English 
moralists and poets were by this lime read by every 
person of condition, and considered as the standards 
lor polite composition. But, as national prejudices 
were still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and 
the fair, continued to speak their native dialect, and 
that with an elegance and poignancy, of which Scots- 
men of the present day can have no jiist notion. I am 
old enough to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of 
Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who sur- 
vived all the members of the Union Parliament, in 
which he had a seat. His pronunciation and phrase- 
ology differed as much from the common dialect, as 
the language of St. James's from that of Thames- 
street. Had W8 retained a court and parliament of 
our own, the tongues of the two sister-kingdoms 
would indeed have differed like the Castilian and 
loi-tuguese ; but each would have had its own classics, 
not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of litera- 
ture. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fash- 
ion of his day, and several of them attempted to write 
poetry in his manner. Persons too idle or too dissipa- 
ed to think of compositions that required much exer- 
ertion, succeeded very happily in making tender son- 
nets to favourite tunes in compliment of their mis 
tresses, land, transforming themselves into impas- 
sioned shepherds, caught the language of the charao. 
ters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Ro- 
bert Crawford of Auchinames, wrote the modern sonj 
of Tweed Side,' which has been so much admired. In 
1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who 
both spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, io 
the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song 
beginning. My sheep I 7ieglectcd, I lost my sheep 
hook, on the marriage of his mistress. Miss Forbes , 
with Ronald Crawford. And about twelve years af. 
terwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancieni 
words to the tune of the Flowers of Ike Forest,\ and 
supposed to allude to the battle of Flowden. In spite 
of the double rhyme, it isa sweet, and though in soma 
parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sor- 
row. The more modern words to the same tune, be- 
ginning, I have seeti the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
were written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a womaa 
of great wit, who outlived all the first group oi literati 
of the present century, all of whom were very fond cf 
her. 1 was delighted with her company, though, whea 
I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know that 
is now lost," 

In addition to these instances of Scottish songs pro- 
duced in the earlier part of the present century, may 
be mentioned the ballad oi' Hardiknute, by Lady Ward- 
law ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the 
song entitled The Birks ofEndermay, by Mallet ; the 
love-song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of Thomson ; 
and the exquisite pathetic ballad, The Braes of Yar- 
row, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of let- 
ters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very gen- 
eral taste seems to have prevailed for the national 
songs and music. " For many years," says Mr. Ram- 
say, " the singing of songs was the great delight of the 
higher and middle order of the people, as well as o. 
the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still very pre* 



' Beginning, ' 

t Beginning 
milking." 



What beauties does Flora disclose!" 
' I have heard a lilting at our ewea* 



$9 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ralent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the com- 
moQ people were not only exceedingly fond of songs 
and ballads, but of melrital liisiory. Often have I, 
in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with 
delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of W'al- 
laiije and Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes 
was wont to call blind Harry their Bible, he being 
their great favourite next the Scriptures. When, there- 
fore, one in the vale of life, fell the first emotions of ge- 
nius, he wanted not models sui geieris. But though 
the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful 
hand among the Scottish peasantry, the product was 
probably like that of pears and apples— of a thousand 
that spring up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to 
set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or more are passable 
and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan 
Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this last tiescrip- 
tion. They had the example of the elder Scottish po- 
ets ; they were not witiiout the aid of the best English 
writers ; and what was of still more importance, they 
were no strangers to the book of nature, and the book of 
God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that Allan 
Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the 
reviewer of the rural poetry of his country. His col- 
lection of ancient Scottish poems, under the name of 
The Ever-Green, h\i collection of Scottish songs, and 
his own poems, the principal of which is the Gentle 
Shepherd, have been universally read among the 
peasantijy of his country, and ha»e in some degree su- 
perseded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as re- 
corded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well 
acquainted with all these. He had also before him the 
poems of Fergussou in the Scottish dialect, which have 
been produced in our own times, and of which it will 
be necessary to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their 
powerlo procure him a liberal education, a circum- 
stance, however, which in Scotland implies no very 
high rank in society. From a well written and appa- 
rently authentic account of his life,* we learn that he 
spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dun- 
dee, and several years at the universities of Edinburgh 
and St. Andrews. It appears that he was at one 
time destined for the Scottish church ; but as he ad- 
vanced towards manhood, he renounced that inten- 
tion, and at Ediiiburgh'entered the office of a writer to 
the signet, a title wnich designates a separate and 
higher order of Scottish attorneys. Fergusson had 
sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and 
talents for society of the most attractive kind. To 
such a man no situation could be more dangerous than 
that in which he was placed. The excesses into which 
he was led, impaired his feeble constitution, and he 
eunk under them in the month of October, 1774, in his 
23d or 24th year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself began 
to write poetry ; and when he first saw them he had 
renounced the muses. But while he resided in the 
town of Irvine, meeting with Fergusson' s Scottish 
Poems, he informs us that he "strung his lyre anew 
with emulating vigour. "t Touched by the sympathy 
originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings 
of similar fortune. Burns regarded Fergusson with a 
partial and an affectionate admiration. Over his 
grave he erected a monument, as has already been 
mentioned ; and his poems he has, in several instan- 
ces, made the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems known to 
Burns, those who are acquainted with them will see 
that they are chiefly liumorous or pathetic ; and under 
one or other of these descriptions most of his own 
poems will class. I^et us compare him with his pre- 
decessors under each of these points of view, and close 
our examination with a few general observations. 

*In the supplement to the " Encycltipsedia Britan- 
nica." See also, "Campbell's Introduction to the 
History of " Poetry in Scotland." 

t See . 13. 



It has frequently been observed, that Scotland bas 
produced, comparatively speaking, lew writers wao 
have excelled in humour. But this observation is 
true only when applied to those who have conunueil 
to reside in their own country, and have confined them- 
selves to composition in pure English ; and in these 
circumstances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect of 
Scotland, have been at ah times remarkable for dwel- 
ling on subjects of humour, in which indeed many of 
them have excelled. It would be easy to show, that 
the dialect of Scotland having become provincial, is 
now scarcely suited to the more elevated kinds of po- 
etry. If we may believe that the poem of Christia 
Kirk of the Grtne was written by James the First of 
Scotland,' this accomplished monarch who had re- 
ceived an English education under the direction of 
Henry the Fourth, and who bore arms under his gal- 
lant successor, gave the model on which the greater 
part of the humorous productions of the rustic muse 
of Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk of the 
Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat modern- 
ized in the orthography, and two cantos were audej 
by him, in which he attempts to carry on the design. 
Hence the poem of King James is usually printed in 
Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, in the 
first canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- 
tion in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates 
the restoration of concord, and the renewal of the ru- 
ral sports, with the humours of a counlryi^weciding. 
Though each of the poets describes the manners of 
his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a 
very suificient uniformity ; a striking proof of the 
identity of character in the Scottish peasantry at the 
two periods, distant from each other three hundred 
years. It is an honourable distinction to this body of 
men, that their character and manners, very little 
embellished, have been found to be susceptible of aa 
amusing and interesting species of poetry j and it must 
appear not a little curious, that the single nation of 
modern Europe, which possesses an original rural 
poetry, should have received the model, followed by 
their rustic bards, from the monaich ou the throne. 

The two additional cantoes to Christis Kirk of the 
Grene, written by Ramsay, though objectionable ia 
point of delicacy, arc among the happiest of bis pro- 
ductions. His chief excellence, indeed, lay in the de 
scription of rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; 
lor he did not possess any very high powers either of 
imagination or of understanding. He was well ac- 
quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives 
and opinions. The subject was in a great measure 
new ; his talents were equal to the subject ; and he 
has shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral 
poetry. In his Gertie Shepherd the characters are 
delineations from nature, the descriptive parts are iu 
the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, the passions 
and affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that 
is bestowed on innocence and virtue. Throughout 
the whole there is an air of reality which the most 
careless reader cannot but perceive ; and in fact oo 
poem ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, ia 
which truth received so little embellishment from the 
imagination. In his pastoral songs, and in his rural 
tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage indeed, but 
still with considerable attraction. The story of the 
Monk and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat li- 
centious, may rank with the happiest productions of 
Prior or La Fontaine. But when he attempts sub- 
jects from higher life, and aims at pure English com 
position, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom 

♦Notwithstanding the evidence produced on this 
subject by Mr. Tytler, the Editor acknowledges his 
being somewhat of a sceptic on this point. Sir David 
Dalrymple inclines to the opinion that it was writleu 
by his successor, James the Fifth. There are diffi 
culties attending this supposition also. But on the 
subject of Scottish antiquities, the Editor ii an incom- 
petent judge. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



£f 



•T« reaches mediocrity.* Neither are his familiar 
epiilles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to 
much approbation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was 
not of the highest order ; nor did his learning, which 
was considerable, improve his genius. His poems 
written in pure English, in which he often follows 
classical models, though superior to the English 
poems of Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but 
in those composed in the Scottish dialect he is often 
very successful. He was in general, however, less 
happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As 
he spent the greater part of his life in E'Mnburgh, and 
wrote for his amusement in the intervals of business or 
dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly founded on 
the incidents of a town life, which, though they are 
susceptible of humour, do not admit of those delinea- 
tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural 
poeu-y of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the 
fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of 
Fiirgusson, if we may so denominate them, are how- 
ever faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a 
Very happy vein of humour. His poems entitled, The 
Daft Days, The King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, 
Leilh Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he imi- 
tated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
before him. His Addrtss to the Tronkirk Bell is an 
exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely 
excelled. In appreciating the genius of Fergusson, 
it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the care- 
less efl'usions of an irregular, though amiable young 
man, who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, 
and who died in early youth. Had his life been pro- 
longed under happier' circumstances of fortune, he 
would probably have risen to much higher reputation. 
He might have excelled in rural poetry ; for though his 
professed pastorals on the established Sicilian model, 
are stale and uninteresting, The Farmer's I"gle,'t 
which may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is 
the happiest of all his productions, and certainly was 
the archetype of the Cotter's Saturday Night. Fer- 
gusson, and more especially Burns, have shown that 
the character and manners of the peasantry of Scot- 
land of the present times, are as well adapted to 
poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of 
Christis Kirk of the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of 
Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself 
informs us, he had " frequently in his eye, but rather 
with a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
imitation."! His descriptive powers, whether the 
objects on which they are employed be comic or seri- 
ous, animate or inanimate, are of the highest order. 
A superiority of this kind is essential to every species 
of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems, 
his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of content- 
ment in the lower classes of society, by showing that 
their superiors are neither much better nor happier 
than themselves ; and this he chooses to execute in a 
form of a dialogue between two dogs. Reintroduces 
this dialogue by an account of the persons and charac- 
ters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named 
Ccesar, is a dog of condition ; 



" His locked, letcer'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar," 

High-bred though he is, Le is however full of conde- 
scension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho, e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
Arid stroan'i on stanes an' hillocks wV him,'' 
t 

The oihtr, Luath, is a "ploughman's collie, but a cur 
of a good heart and a sound understanding. 

•See " The Morning Interview," &c. 
fThe farraer'i fire-side. JSee Appendix. 



I " His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. 

Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 

j His breast was white, his towsie back 

Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy 'lack. 
His gawcie tail, wi' ispward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a siourl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineated. 
Their gambols before they sit down to moralize, are 
described with an equal degree of happiness ; and 
through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as 
the different condition of the two speakers, is kept in 
view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates 
the comforts ot the poor, gives the following account of 
their merriment on the first day of the year ; 

" That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid will 
The cantie auld folks crackin crousc, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house. 
My heaithas been sae fain to see them, 
That I for Joy hae barkit wi' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralized on human af- 
fairs since the days of ^sop, the dog seems best enti- 
tled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacti- 
ty, as from his being more than any other, the friend 
and associate of man. The dogs of Burns, excepting 
in their talent for moralizing, are downright dogs ; and 
not like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and Panther 
of Dryden, men in the shape of brutes. It is this cir- 
:umstance mat heightens the humour of the dialogue. 
The " twa dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, 
and the contrast between their form and character as 
dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour and deepens the impression of the poets 
satire. Though in his poem the chief excellence may 
be considered as humour, yet great talents are dis- 
played in its composition ; the happ.est powers of des- 
cription and the deepest insight into the human heart.* 
It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns ap- 
pears in so simple a form. The liveliness of his sensibili- 
ty frequently impels him to introduce into subjects of 
humour, emotions of tenderness or of pity ; and where 
occasion admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert 
the higher powers of the imagination. In such instan- 
ces he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergus- 
son, and associates himself with the masters of Eng- 
lish poetry, whose language be frequently assumes. 



Of the union of tenderness and humour, examples 
may be found in 77ie Death and Dying Words of 
poor Mailie, in The Auld Farmer's New-Yenr's 
MoTTiing Salutation to his Mare Mnggie, and in 
many of his other poems. The praise of whiskey is 
a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedi- 
cates his poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its 

* When this poem first appeared, it was thought by 
some very surprising that a peasant, who had not an 
opportunity of associating even with a simple gentle- 
man, should have been able to portray the character of 
high-life with such accuracy. And when it was recol- 
lected that he had probably been at the races of Ayr, 
where nobility as well as gentry are to be seen, it was 
concluded that the race-groiuid had been the field of 
his observation. This was sagacious enough; but it 
not require such instruction to inform Burns, that 
human nature is essentially the same in ihe high and 
the low ; and a genius which comprehenc'* the human 
mind, easily comprehends the accidental varieties in« 
troduced by situation. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



cheering influence in a variety of situations, he de- 
bcribes, with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its 
[ 'jmulaliiig eflecis on ihe blacksmith working ai bis 
orge : 

" Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, baiuie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 



On another occasion,* choosing to exalt whiskey 
above wine, he introduces a comparison between ihe 
natives of more genial climes, to whom the vine fur- 
nishes their beverage, and his own countrymen who 
irink the spirit of inall. The description of the Scots- 
men is humourous : 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap to his cheek a' Highland gill. 
Say such is Royal George's will. 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagination of 
ihe poet. He goes on thus : 

" Nae cauld, fainthearted doublings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

la faint huzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and concludes 
the poem with the followiug most laughable, but most 
•rrevereut apostrophe : 

" Scotland, my auld respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till where ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your Jam : 
Freedom and whiskey gang ihegithK", 

Tak off your dram !" 

Of this union of humour with the higher powers of 
imagination, instances may be found in the poem enti- 
tled DeaLh and Dr. Hornbook, and in almust every 
stanza of the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest 
of his productions. Alter reproaching this terrible 
being with all his "doings" and misdeeds, in the 
course of which he passes through a series of Scottish 
superstitions, and rises at times into a high strain of 
poetry ; he concludes this address, delivered in a lone 
of great famiharily, not altogether unmixed with ap- 
preheusion, in the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie ben I 
O wad you tak a thought an' men' 1 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

E'en for your sake ?" 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily in- 
termixed, that it is impossible to say which prepon- 
derates. 

Eurgusson wrote a dialogue between the Caxtseway 
'and the Plainstones,^ of Edinburgh. This probably 

♦ " The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in Parliament." 

t The middle of the street, and the side-way. J 



suggested to Burns his dialogue between the Old and 
the New bridge over the river Ayr.' The nature of 
such subjects requires that they shall be treated hu- 
mourously, and Furgussoii has attempted nothing b<»- 
yond this. Though the Causeway and the Plainstonei 
talk together, no attempt is made to personify th« 
speakers. A " cadie"f heard the conversation and re- 
ported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, Bur d» 
himself is the auditor, and the time and occasion oa 
which it occurred is /elated with great ch-cumstanliali- 
ty. The poet, "pressed by care," or "inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wan- 
dered out alone in the darkness and solitude of a win- 
ter night, to the mouth ot the river, where the stillness 
was inierrupied only by the rushing sound of the influi 
of the tide. It was after midnight. The Dungeon- 
clockj had struck two, and the sound had been re- 
peated by Wallace-Tower. J Ail else was bushed.^ 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream."—- 

In this situation the listening bard hears the "clang- 
ing sugh" of wings moving through the air, and speed- 
ily he perceives two beinss, reared the one on the Old, 
the oiher on the New Bridge, whose form and attire 
he describes, and whose conversation with each other 
he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of 
the respective edifices over which they preside, and af- 
terwards, as is usual between the old and young, com- 
pare modern characters and manners with those of 
past times. They differ, as may be expected, and 
taunt and scold each other in Broad Scotch. This 
conversation, which is certainly humourous, may be 
considered as the proper business of the poem. As 
the debate runs high, and threatens serious consequen- 
ces, all at once it ia interrupted by a new scene of 
wonders ; 

•' all before their sight 

A fairy train appeared in order bright ; 

Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 

Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ; 

They footed o'er the watry glass so neat. 

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 

While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 

And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung." 



" The Genius of the Stream in front appears— 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound," 

Next follow a number of other allegorical beings, 
among them are the four seasons, Rural Joy, Plenty, 
Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 
Learning and Wealth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Calrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel- 
wreath, 
Torustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling 
wrath." 

• The Brigs of Ayr. t A messenge* 

J The two steeples of Ayr. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



53 



Thif poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, displays 
Y»rioui and powerful talents, and may serve to illus- 
trate the genius of Bums. In particular, it affords a 
•triking instance of his being carried beyond his origi- 
nal purpose by the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poems, the Ptainsiones and Cause- 
way contrast the characters of the different persons 
who walked upon them. Burns probably conceived, 
that, by a dialogue between the Old and New Bridge, 
he might form a humorous contrast between ancient 
and modern manneisin the town of Ayr. Such a dia- 
losue could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of 
night ; and this led our poet into a description of a 
midnight scene, which excited in a high degree the 
powers of his imagination. During the whole dialogue 
the scenery is present to his fancy, and at length it 
suggests to him a fairy dance of aerial beings, under 
the beams of the moon, by which the wrath of the Genii 
of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this poem are, 
k is not an incongruity that displeases ; and we have 
only to regret that the poet did not bestow a little pains 
in making the figures more correct, and iu smoothing 
the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may he included his 
Dedication to G. H. Esq. discover, like his other 
writings, the powers of a superior understanding. 
They display deep insight into human nature, a gay 
and happy strain of reflection, great independence of 
sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to be regret- 
ted, that, in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humour degenerates into personal satire, 
and that it is not sufficiently guarded in other respects. 
The Halloween of Burns is free from every objection 
of this sort. It is interesting, not merely from its hu- 
morous description of manners, but as it records the 
tpclls and charms used on the celebration of a festi- 
val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, but 
which was once observed over the greater part of Bri- 
tain and Ireland.* These charms are supposed to af- 
ford an insight into futurity, especially on the subject 
of marriage, the most interesting event of rural life. 
In the Halloween, a female in performing one of the 
spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her 
shift-sleeve into a stream running towards the South-t 
It was not necessary for Burns to give a description of 
this stream. But it was the character of his ardent 
mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion re- 
quired, but what it admitted ; and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by moonlighL, 
was not to be resisted. 

" Whyles owre a lirm the burnie pLiys 

As thro' the glen it wirapl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it stays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect will al- 
low this to be one of the finest instances of description 
which the records of poetry afford. Though of a very 
different nature, it may be compared in point of ex- 
cellence with Thompson's description of a river 
swollen by the rains of winter, bursting through the 
straights that confine its torrent, " boiling, wheeling, 
foaming, and thundering along. "J 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly in rural 
poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled equally as 

* In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quite 
in disuse in Wales. 
tSee "ffalloween," Stanzas xxiv. and xxv. 
J Sea Thompson's Winter. 



in that of a humorous kind ; and, using less of the 
Scottish dialect in his serious poems, he becomes more 
generally intelligible. It is difficult to decide whether 
the Address to a Mouse, whose itest was turned up 
with the plough, should be considered as serious or 
comic, be this as it may, the poem is one of the hap- 
piest and most finished of his productions, if we 
smile at the " Dickering battle" of this flying animal, 
it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive 
part is admirable ; the moral refiections beautiful, 
and arising directly out of the occasion ; and in the 
conclu-sion there is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of 
doubt and dread, that rises to the sublime. The Ad- 
dress to a Mountain Daisy, turned down with the 
plough, is a poem of the same nature, though some- 
what inferior in point of originality, as well as in the 
interest produced. To extract out of incidents so 
common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so fine a 
train of sentiment and imagery, is the surest jirool, as 
well as the most brilliant triumph of original genius. 
The Vision, in two cantoes, from which a beautiful 
extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th num- 
ber of The Loangtr, is a poem of great excellence.— 
The opening, in which the poet describes his own state 
of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied from the la- 
bours of the day, to moralize on his conduct and pros- 
pects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if we may 
so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is au ex- 
quisite painting : 

" There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provokiug smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an 
aerial being into a mansion of this kind, required the 
powers of Burns — he however succeeds. Coila enters, 
and her countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike those 
of other spiritual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To 
the painting, on her mantle, on which is depict- 
ed the most striking scenery, as well as the most 
distinguished characters, of his native country, some 
exceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, 
like the cup of 'rhyrsis,' and the shield of Achilles, is 
too much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, ac- 
cording to the principles of design. The generous 
temperament of Burns led him into these exuberances. 
In his second edition he enlarged the number of fig- 
ures originally introduced, that he might include ob- 
jects to which he was attached by sentiments of affec- 
tion, gratitude, or patriotism. The s.econd Duan, or 
canto of this poem, in which t^oila describes her own 
nature and occupation, particularly her superintend, 
ence of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles 
him to the chaiacter of a bard, is an elegant and so- 
lemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, except- 
ing the harmony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
tions of the English muse. The concluding stanza, 
compared with that already quoted, will show to wliat 
height Burns rises in this poem, from the point at which 
he set out ; — 

" Andwearthou this—s\\e solemn said. 
And, bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In lighlaway." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited the pictur 
of a mind under the deep imiiression of real sorrow 
The Lament, The Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and 
Win'er, a Dirge, are of this character. In the firs* 
of these poems, the 8th stanza, which describes a 
sleepless night from anguish of mind, is particularly 
striking. Burns often indulged in those melancholy 

• See the first Idyllium of Theocritus. 



54 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



▼iewa of the nature and condition nf roan, -\-hich 
are so congenial to the temperament of sensibility. — 
Tlie poem entitled Mm tens m de to Mourn, afl'oids 
• u instance of thii kind, and The Winter Night is ol" 
the same description. The last is highly chaiacleris- 
tic, hoili of ihe temper of mind, and of the condition of 
Burns. It begins with a description of a dreadful 
norm on a night in winter. The poet represents him- 
self as laying in bed, and Usleiiinglo its huwliug. In 
this siiuation he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
oierie Cattle and the silli/ Sheep, exposed lo all the 
violence of the tempest. Having lamented their fate, 
he proceeds in the following 



•' Ilk happing bird — wee, helpless thing I 
That, in the merry mouths o' spring, 
Delighted rae to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing. 

An' close thy e'e .•"' 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to his 
mind ; awid as the midnight moon " muffled with 
clouds" casts her dreary light on his window, thoughts 
of a darker and more melancholy nature crowd upon 
him. In this state of mind, he hears a voice pouring 
through the gloom a solemn and plaintive strain of re- 
flection. The mourner compares the fury of the ele- 
ments with that of man to his brother man, and finds 
the former light in the balance. 

" See stem oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood bounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, aud murder, o'er aland!" 

He pursues tliis train of reflection through a variety 
of particulars, in the course of which he introduces the 
following animated apostrophe : 

" Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 

lU-satisfy'd Keen Nature's clara'rous call, 
Slretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifiy heap 1" 

The B'.rain of sentiment which runs through the 
poem is noble, though the execution is uuequal, and 
the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, 7^ Cotter^s 
S'lturday Night is perhaps entitled to the first rank. 
The Farmer's Ingle of Fergusson evidently suggested 
the plan of this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely 
to his own powers for the execution. Fergusson's 
poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms 
which depend on rural characters and manners hap- 
pily portrayed, and exhibited under circumstances 
highly grateful lo the imagination. TheFaimer's In- 
gle begins with describing the return of evening. The 
toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires to his 
comfortable fire-side. The reception which he and his 
men servants receive from the careful housewife, is 
pleasingly describsd. After their supper is over, they 
begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on. 
How Jock wooed Jtnny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as'forming a 
circle round the fire, iu the midst of her gi-aud-chil 



dren, and while she spins from the rock, and tne tphi* 
die plays on her " russe*. lap," she is relating to th» 
young ones (ales of witches and ghosts. The poet ex« 
claims : 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return. 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's are cradled when the grave is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the fa- 
tigues of the day, stretches himself at length on the 
Settle, a sort of rustic couch, which extends on one 
side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog leap upon it 
to receive his caresses. Here resting at hii> ease, he 
gives his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The housewife follows his example, and 
gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in 
the cruise begins lo fail ; the fire runs low ; sleep steals 
on this rustic group ; and they move ofl'to enjoy their 
peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestowing 
his blessings on the " husbandman aud all his tribe.'* 

This is an original and truly interesting pastoral. 
It possesses every ihnig required in this species of 
composition. We might have perhaps said every 
thing thai it admits, had not Burns written his Cot 
ter's Sa'.wday Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, has no 
servants lo accompany him, to partake of his fare, or 
to receive his instructions. The circle which he joins, 
is composed of his wife and children only ; and if it 
admits of less variety, it aflbrds an opportunity for 
representing scenes that more strongly interest the af- 
fections. 'I'be younger children running to meet him, 
aud clambering round his knee ; the elder, returning; 
from their weekly labours with the neighbouring far- 
mers, dutifully depositing their little gains with their 
parents, and receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions ; the incidents of the courtship of Jeimy, 
their eldest daughter, "woman grown ;" are circum 
stance-, of the most interesting kind, which are most 
happily delineated; and after their frugal supper, the 
representation of these humble cottagers forming a 
wider circle round their hearth, and uniting in the 
worship of God, is a picture the most deeply alTecting 
of any which the rural muse has ever presented to the 
view. Burns was admii-ably adapted to this delinea- 
tion. Like all men of gen'us, he was of the tempera- 
ment of devotion, and the powers of memory co-opera- 
led in this instance with the sensibility of his heart, 
and the fervour of his imagination.* 7%e Cotter's 
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is solemn and 
devotional, and rises at length into a strain of gran- 
deur and sublimity, which modern poetry has not sur- 
passed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with 
which it concludes, correspond with the rest of the 
poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses 
breaihed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope 
be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form oidy. 
It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ his 
genius on other subjects of the same nature, wliichthe 
manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would 
have amply stipplied. Such poetry is not lobe esti- 
mated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it 
sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated far be- 
yond any other human means, for giving permanence 
lo the scenes and characters it so exquisitely de- 
scribes.! 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to oflTer a few 
observations on the lyric productions of Burns. His 
compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally 
in the Scottish dialect, and always after the model of 
the Scottish son^s, on the general character and moral 
influence of which, some observations have alreaUy 
been ofi"ered. Wc may hazard a few more paiticular 
remarks. 

• The reader will recollect that the Cotter w« 
Burns's falher. See p. IS. 
t See Appendix, No. II. NoteD. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



55 



Of ihohiittrlc or heroic ballads of Scotland, it is 
unnecesiary to speak. Burns lias no where imitated 
Ihein, a circumalaoce to be regretted, since in this 
specie* of composition, from its admitting the more 
terrible as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was 
eminently qualified to have excelled, 'i'he .Scottish 
»ung» which served as a modeH to Burns, are almost 
without exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of 
them as are comic, frequeiuly treat of a rustic court- 
shijj or a country wtddiiiK ; or they describe the 
dirierences of opinion which arise :a married life. 
Burns has imitated this species, and surpassed his 
models. The song, beginning, " Husband, husband, 
cease your strife," may be cited in support of this 
observation.* His other comic songs are of equal 
merit. In the rural songs of Scotland, whether hu- 
morous or tender, the sentiments are given to particu- 
lar characters, and very generally, the incidents are 
referred to particular scenery. This last circumstance 
may be considered as the distinguiohed feature of the 
Scottish songs, and on it a considerable part of their 
attraction depends. On all occasions the sentiments, 
of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of 
the person principally interested, if love be described, 
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt; and the 
passion is delineated under a particular aspect. 
Neither is it the fiercer impulses of ilesire that are ex- 
prepsed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the model 
of so many modern songs, but those gentler emotions 
of tenderness and afiection, which do not entirely ab- 
»orb the lover ; but permit him to associate his emo- 
tions with the charms of external nature, and breathe 
the accents of purity and innocence, as well as of love. 
In these respects the love^ongs of Scotland are hon- 
ourably distinguished from the most admired classical 
comiiosittons of the same kind ; and by such associa- 
tions, a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to the 
representation of this passion, which are not to be 
found in ti.e poetry of Greece or Rome, or perha[)8 of 
any other nation. JVIany of the love-songs of Scotland 
describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be 
considertd as invocations from lovers to their mis- 
tresses. On such occasions a degree of interest and 
reality is given to the sentiments, by the spot des- 
tined to these happy interviews being particularized. 
The lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Trat^'inir, 
or on the Banks of EUrick ; the nymphs are invoked 
to wander among the wilds of Roslin, or the woods of 
Invejynay. Nor is the spot merely pointed out ; the 
scenery is often described as well as the characters, so 
as to present a complete picture to the fancy .f Thus 

* The dialogues between husbands and their wives, 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are al- 
most all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests 
the lady is generally victorious. From the collections 
of Mr. I'inkerton, we find that the comic muse of 
Scotland delighte<l in such representations from very 
early times, in her rude dramatic efforts, as well as in 
(«er rustic songs. 

1 One or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
tion. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years 
ago, begins thus: 

" On Ettrick banks, on a summer's nigkt, 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove harae, 
I met my lassie, braw and light. 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck. 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lang, 
My words they were na raony feck."* 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate 
the language he employed with his Lowland maid to 
win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to 
ibe Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The 

• Money feck, not very many. 



the maxim of Horace ut picture poetie, is faithfilllf 

observed by these rustic bards, wft^) are guided by thi 
same impulse of nature and sensibility which influ- 
enced the father of ei-ic poetry, on whose example the 
precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By 
this means the imagination is employed to interest the 
feelings. When we not conceive distinctly we do nov, 
sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and we 
conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstraction, so use- 
ful in morals, and so essential in science, must be 
abandoned when the heart is to be subdued by the 
powers of poetry or of eloquence. 'I'he bards ofarii- 
der condition of society paint individual objects ; and 
hence, among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to (he heart. Generalization i« the vice of poets 
whose learning overpowers their genius ; of poets of a 
refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much in tlie 
Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly to the in- 
terest they excite, also shows that they have originated 
among a people in the earlier stages of society. Where 
this form of composition ajipears in songs of a modern 
date, it indicates that they have been written after the 
aucieal model.* 

sentiments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel 
them with double force, while we conceive that they 
were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone, on a summer's evening, by the banks of 
a beautiful stream, which some of us have actually 
seen, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. 
Let us take another example. It is now a nymph 
that speaks. Hear how she expresses herself— 

" How blythe each morn was I to see 

My swain come o'er the hill I 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 

I met him with guid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the ; encil of Na- 
ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a 
brook, watching her lover as he descends the opposite 
hill. He bounds lightly along ; he approaches nearer 
and nea.-er ; he leaps the brook, and flies into her 
arras. In the recollection of these circumstances, tha 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair 
mourner, and she buiuts into the following exdania- 
tiun : 

" O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
The broom of the Cowden Knowes I 

I wish 1 were with ray dear swain, 
With hia pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of (his happy interview (• 
pointed out, and the picture is completed. 

* That the dramatic form of writing characterize* 
the productions of an early, or, what amounts to the 
same thine, of a rude stage of society may be i.'.'»4<trat- 
ed by a reference to the most ancient compositions 
that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the wri- 
tings of Homer. The fjrin of dialogue is adopted in 
the old Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever 
the situations described becomes interesting. This 
sometimes produces a very striking effect, of which an 
instance may be given from the ballad of Edom o' 
Gordon, a composition apparently of the pixteenth 
century. The story of the ballad is shortly this.— 
The castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, 
is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon. Tfe« 
lady standa on her defence, beats off the asMJ'acCi, * 



&G 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



'r!»e Scottish tons* »r« of » rery unequal iwetic«I 
raarit, itiiii iliii iitei^ualily otteii rxuiuls to the ilittVr- 
«iu p«rl« dl'ilie aaiua so4ig. 'riK>j>.' Uial are htiinoroiia, 
orchtkr»cterijlic ol mtkiinei's, hitv<) in ^viicrivl tlie meru 
of i-opyiuj iiaiur* : those that are senixis, are teiuler, 
•ii>t oUtii sweeily iiilerestiuj, but srKloin «xliUiit Kigli 
povvtfi-a ofiii»!;iuAtioii, wliuh iiult'eU ilo not racily liiul 
a |il.ice lu tins species of coinpttsiiioii. The alliance 
of the wji-vls of the Scoliish songs with the music, 
has ill some insiances given the former a popularity, 
which otherwise they wouUi not have oblaiued. 

The association of the \vor\U am) the miiaic of these 
soiii(3, with the more beautilul parts of the scenery of 
ScodamI, contributes to the same eflect. It has ^iven 
theiit not merely popularity, but permanence ; it has 
imparted to the works of man some portion of the ilu- 
I'ability of (he works of nature. It, from our impei-- 
fect experience of the past, we may juiixe with any 
conliileuce re$(>ectin2 the future, songs of litis descrip- 
tion are of all others least likely toiiie. In the changes 
of language they ntay no iloubt suiter change ; but 
the associated strain of sentiment and of music will 
perhaps survive, white the clear sli-e»m sweep's down 
tlie vale of Yari-ow, or iho yellow broom waves on 
Cowileii-Knowes. 

The firet attempts of Bums in song-vvniing were 
not very succes«l'ul. His habitual inaUeiuioii to the 
exactness of rhymes, and to the hannouy of number, 
arising probably from the moilels on wlucii the versifi- 
cation was formed, were faults likely to appear to more 
disadvantage iu this species of composition, than in 
any other ; and we may also remark, that the sirength 
ot his iiuaginaiioii, and the exuberance of his sensibili- 
ty, were with ditficulty restrained wiihin the limits of 
gentleneas, delicacy, and tenderness, which seemed to 
be assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Bums was 
better adapted by nature for following, iu such compo- 
sitions, the model of the Gi-ecian, than that of the 
Scottish muse. By study and pr.'ictice he however 
surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs, 
khere is some ruggedness ; but this gi-adually disap- 
pears in his successive etlbrts ; and some of his later 
compositions of this kind may be compareil, in pol- 
ished delicacy, with the finest songs in our language, 
while in the eloquence of seusibility they surpass ihtun 
all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models ha followed and 
excelled, are often dramatic, and forihe greater part 
amatory ; and the beauties of rural nature are every 
where associated with the passions and emotions of 

and wounds Gonlon, who, in his rage, orders the 
castle to be set on tire. That his orvlers are car- 
ried into eOect, we learn from the ex^>ostulation of the 
lady, who is represented as standing on the battle- 
ments, and remonstrating on this barbarity. Slie is 
interrupted — 

" O then bespake her little sou, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says, ' mither dear, gi' owre this house, 

For the reek itsmiihei-s me.' 
• I wad gie a' my gowd, my cliilde, 

Sae wad I a" my fee, 
Forae blast o' the weslin wind. 

To blaw the reek frae Ihee." ' 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish lorewsongs, and 
the dramatic form wliich prevails so generally in them, 
probably arises from their being the descendants and 
successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
modern song of Miry of Casth^Cary, the dramatic 
form has a very happy effect. The same may be said 
ofDoruUd and Ploni, and Come wider inypljidie, bv 
the saro* author, Mr. Macuiel. 



the mind. Disdaining to copy (he work of otharv, M 
has not, like some poets of great iianu-, admitleil iuto 
his descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes h« 
has paiiile<(, and the objects with which li.ey are enf 
bellished, are, in every single instance, such as are to 
be found ill Ins own country. In a mountainous !'•• 
gion, especially when it is comparatively rndu ami 
iiakeil, and the' most beautiful scenery will always l>« 
louiid in the vallies, and on banks of the wooiled 
streams. Such scenery is peculiar) interesting at thii 
cK>se of a summer-day. As we advance northwards, 
the number of the day's of summer, indeed, diminishes ; 
but from this cause, as well as frv>m the mildness of the 
temperatum, the attraction of the season increase*, 
and the suinmer-inght becomes still more beautilul. 
The gi eater obliquity of the sun's path on the ecliptic, 
prolongs the grateful seasons of twilight to the mid- 
night hours : and the shades of the evening seem to 
mingle with the morning's dawn. The rural poets ivf 
Scotland, as iivky l<e expected, associate in their songs 
the expressions of passion, with the moat beautiful of 
their scenery, in the fairest season ol the yr-ar, and 
generally in those hours of the evening when the beau- 
ties of nature are most interesting.' 

To all theie adventitious circunutances, on which 
so much of the etVect of poetry depends, great atten- 
tion is paid by Burns. There' is scarcely a single song 
ol his, in which particiUai scenery is uot described, or 
allusions made to natural objects, remarkable lor 
be.iuty or interest; and though his descriptions are 
not so full as are sometiiiies met with in the older 
Scottish songs, they are in the highest degree appro- 
priate and iiuei-esting. Instances iu proof ol this might 
be ijiioted from the Leii Hig, Ilighlund A/<iry, Tfi* 
Soliligr'i K tuni, Logii^'i H'aisr : from that beautiful 
pastoral Hoiirii/ Jgan, ani\ a great number of others. 
(.)ccasiv>imlly the force of his genius carries him beyond 
the usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural 
objects introduced have more of the character of sub- 
limity. .An instance of tliis kind is noticed by Air. 
Syine,t >^ni^ many others might be adduced : 

* A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains high 
admiration (Mrs. Bai-bauld,) Ikas fallen into an error 
in thisres(>oct. In tier pi-efatory address to the works 
of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may 
be employed to give interest to the descriptions uf 
passion, she observes, " tliey present iu iiiexhaustib^ 
variety, from the Song of Solomon, breathing of ca» 
sia, myrrh, and cumamon, to the Gentle Shephenl i| 
Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milking-paiU 
through the frosts and snow of their less genial but 
not less pastoral colkntry." The damsels of Ramsay 
do not walk in the midst of frost and suow. Almost 
all the scenes of the Gentle Sheplierd are laid in Jie 
open air, amidst beautiful natural objects, and »t tli« 
most genial season of tl-e year. Ramsay iiitrvducea 
all his acts with a prefatory description to assure us of 
this. The fault of the clinvtie of Britain is not, 
that it does not atlord us the beauties of summer 
but that the season of such beauties :s compara 
lively shoi-t, and even uncertain. There are day» 
and nights, even in the norihoru division of the i» 
land, which equal, or perhaps surpass, what are la 
be found in the latitude of Sicily, or of Cireece.— 
Buchanan, when he wrote his exquisite Oiii to May, 
fell the charm as well as the tiansiciitness of the«* 
happy days : 

Salve fiigacis gloria seculi. 
Salve secunda digiia dies nola 
Salve vetusl« vitje Imago, 
Ki si>ecimen vanientis ^tvi. 

t See pp. 37, «. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



57 



* Had I a cave on eotne wild, dUtant ihore, 
Where the wind* bowl to the waves' dashing 
roar : 
There would I weep my woe's. 
There seek my lai>i repost, 
Till grief my eyeii should cioae 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter- 
uii^ht, the " wan moon" is described as "settine be- 
hind Ibe whiK; waves; in anutiier, the "storms" 
«ie apo<tro|<hix<.-<J, and commanded to '■ rest ifi the 
cave of their slumbers," on several occasions the gen- 
ius of Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, ami 
rises into a strain ^f uniform sublimity. Instances of 
this kind appear in lAberlie, a VUiort ; awl in his two 
war-song«, Bruce to ku Trrjopit, and the Sons of 
Death, 'i'hese last are of a description of which we 
ha-ve no olher-in our language. The martial songs 
of our nation are not military, but naval. If we 
Were to seek a comparison of these songs of Burns 
with others of a similar nature, we must have re- 
course to the poriry of ancient Greece, or of moderr. 
Ciaul. 

Bums has made an im))ortant addition to the songs 
of ScotlaiMJ. In his compositions, the poetry equals 
and sometimes surpasses the music. He has enlarged 
the poetical scenery of his country. Many of iier 
rivers and mountains, formerly unknown to the muse, 
ure now consecrated by his immortal muse. The 
Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, 
will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their bor- 
ders will Lie trodden with new and superior emotioos. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were written 
after he removed into the coonty of Dumfries. Influ- 
enced, perhaps, by habits formed in early life, he usu- 
ally comix>sea while walking in the open air. When 
engaged in writing these songs, his favourite walks on 
the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly 
near the ruins of Linclnden Abbey ; and this beautiful 
scenery he has very hoppily described under various 
aspects, as it aijpears during the softness and serenity 
of evening, and during ttie stillness and solemnity of 
the rnoou-light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions of the 
the drama not excepted, so much calculated to influ 
ence the morals, as v/ell as the happiness of a people, 
as those pojjular verses which are associated with na- 
tional airs ; and which being learned in the years of 
infancy, make a deeji irn)>re»sion on liie heart before the 
evolution of the powers of the understanding. The 
compositions of Burns of this kind, now presented in a 
collected form to the world, make a most important 
addition to the (lOfiular songs of his nation. Like ail 
his other writings, they exhibit independence o( senti- 
ment ; they are peculiarly calculated to increase those 
ties which bind generous hearts to their native soil, 
and to the domestic circle of their infancy ; and to 
chensh those sensibilities which, under d<ie reotric- 
tion, lorm the (xireFt happiness of our nature. If in 
his uneuarded morrtents he composed some songs on 
which this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope that 
they will speedily be forgotten. In several instances, 
where Scottish airs were'aliied to words objectionable 
in point of delicacy, Burns has substituted others of a 
purer character. On such occasions, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. A 
proof of this may be seen in the air of John Anderson 
my Joe, which is now united to words that breathe a 
atrain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral 
as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances couM afford a more striking 
proof of the slrenetn of Burns's genius than the gene- 
ral circulation of his poems in En!(land, notwithstand- 
ing the dialect in whiib the greater part are written, 
and which mi^ht be i#p(>-»ed to render them here un- 
couth or obscure. In soroe iii8tai.rj>s he has used 
Ibis dialect on subjects of a subliui^ p&iure ' but in 

K 



general he confines it to 'sentiments or descriptions o< 
a tender or humourous kind ; and where he uses into 
elevation ol thong'ht, he assume* a purer English style. 
The singular (acuity he possessed of mingling in I)i« 
same fKiera, humorous sentiments and descriptions, 
with imagery of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled 
hirn to use this variety of dialect on some occasions 
with s'riking effect, ilis poem of Tarn o' Slianter af- 
foKls an instance of this. 'J'here he passes from a scene 
of the lowest humour, to situations of the most awful 
and terrible kind. He is a musician tfrnt from the 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the 
Scottish dialect enables him to add two additional 
notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabitants of 
Scotland, of the superior ranks, to approximate i/i 
their speech u» the pore English standard ; and this 
has made it (Lfiicull to write in the Scottish dialect, 
without exciting ici them some feelings of disgust, 
which in Kngland are scarcely felt. An Englishman 
who uiidersiands ihc meaning of tiie Scottish'words, is 
not ofiended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perhaps, 
pleased with the rustic dialect, ae he may be with tt)e 
Doric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own country, if a 
man of education, and more especially if a literary 
character, has banished such words from his writings, 
and has auerapled to banish them from his speech : 
and being accustomed to hear them from the vulgar, 
daily, does not easily admit of their use in poetry, 
which requires a style elevated and ornamental. A 
dislike of this kind is, however, accidental, not nat- 
lti%oneofthe species of di<gu«l which we feel 
at Seeing a female of higb birth in the dress of a rustic ; 
which, if siie be really young and beautiful, a little 
habit will enable us toovercciras. A lady who 2«sume» 
such a dress, puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer tri- 
al. She rejects — she. indet-d, opposes the influence of 
fashion ; she possibly abandons the grace of elegant 
and flowing drapery ; but her native charms remain 
the more striking, jjerhans, because the less adorned ; 
and to these she trusts lor flziug her empire on those 
afiecticns over which fashion has nosway. If she suc- 
ceeds, a new association arises. The dress of the 
beautiful rustic becomesitself beautiful, and establishes 
a new fashion for the young and gay. And when in 
after ages, the contemplating observer shall view her 
picture in the gallery that contains the portraits of the 
i>eauties of successive centuries, each in the dress of 
her res(;ective day, her drapery will not deviate, more 
than that of her rivaU, from the standard of his taste, 
Mid he will give the palm to her who excels iu the lin- 
eaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of hi* 
country, and b_y them their native dialect is universal- 
ly relished. 'I o a numerous class of the natives of 
Scotland of another description, it may alto be consid- 
ered as attractive in a different [X)inl of view. Estran- 
ged from their native soil, and spread over foreign 
lands, the idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
menu and the descriptions on which it is employed, to 
recal to their minds the interesting scenes of infancy 
and vouth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender 
recolleclions. Literary men, residing at Edinburgh 
or Aberdeen, cannot judge on this point for due nun. 
dred and fifty thousand of their expatriated country. 



* These observations are excited by some remarks 
of respectable correspondents ofthe description alluded 
to. This calculation of the number of Scotchmen liv- 
ing out of Scotland is not altogether arbitrary, and it 
is probably below the truth. It is, in some degree 
founded on the proportion between the number of th« 
sexes in Scotland, as it appears from the invaluable 
Statisticsof Sir John Sinclair. For Scotchmen of this 
description, more particularly, EJ-irns seems to baT" 
written his song, begi.^D■lXlg, Tkevr grQvu o' met 



58 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



To the uae of the Scottish dialect in one species of 
poetry, the composiiion of songs, tbe taste of ihe pub- 
lic has been for some time recunciled. The dialect in 
question excels, as has already been observed, in the 
copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural ob- 
jects ; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric 
eimplicity , which is very generally approved. Neither 
does the regret seem well founded which some persons 
of taste have expresseo, :hat Burns used this dialect 
in so many other of his compositions. His declared 
purpose was to paint the manners of rustic life among 
his " humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive 
that this could have been done with equal humour 
and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. There 
are some, indeed, who will think the subject too low 
for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find their 
delicacies consulted in many a polite and learned 
author: let them not seek for gratification in the 
rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, 
or in the overpowering sensibility of this bard of na- 
ture. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns would 
be no easy task. Many persona, afterwards distin- 
guished in literature, have been born in as humble a 
situation of life ; but it would be diiBtult to find any 
other who, while earning his suljsistence by daily la- 
bour, has written verses which have attracted and re- 
tained universal attention, and which are hkely to give 
the author a permanent and distinguished place among 

myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it maybe confidently 
predicted, will be sung with equal or superior interest 
on the banka of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on 
Uiow of tbe Tay or the Tweed. 



the followers of the muses. If h» is deficient In gnet. 
he is distinguished for ease as well as energy ; ana 
these are indications of Ihe higher order of genius.— 
The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as 
excelling in strength, another in swiftness — to form 
his perfect warrior, these attributes are combined— 
Every species of inlellectual superiority admits per- 
haps of a similar arrangement. One writer excels in 
force — another in ease : he is superior to them both, 
in whom both these qualities are united. Of Ho- 
mer himself it may be said, that, like his own Achillies; 
he surpasses his competitors in nobility as well as 
strength. 

The force of Bums lay in the powers of his under- 
standing, and in the sensibility of his heart ; and tliesb 
will be found to infuse the living principle into all the 
works of genius which seem destined to immortality. 
His sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one of the few 
poets that can be mentioned, who hive at once ex- 
celled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a 
praise unknown to the ancients, and which in modem 
times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and per- 
haps to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the 
Scottish peasant with the works of these giants in lit- 
ei-aiure, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be 
asserted that he has displayed tbe foot of Hercules. 
How near he might have approached them by proper 
culture, with lengthened years, and under happier 
auspices, it is not lor us to calculate. But while we 
run over the melancholy story ot his life, it is impossi- 
ble not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; 
and as we survey the records ofhis mind, it is easy to 
see, that out of sucli materials have been reared tn« 
fairest and the most durable of tbe mouunieuu «f 
gesiua. 



TO 

EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



is impossibla to dismiss this volume* of the Cor- 
•>ntleiice of our Bard, without some anxiety as to 
ti^e reception ii may meet wiih. The experiment 
we are making has not often been tried ; perhaps on 
no occasion has so large a portion of the recent and 
unpremeditated effusions of a man of genius been 
committed to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a considerable 
number were transmitted for publication, by the indi- 
viduals to whom they were addressed ; but very few 
have been printed entire. It will easily be believed, 
that in a series of letters wrilten without the least 
view to publication, various passages were tound unfit 
for the press, from different considerations. It will 
also be readily supposed, that our poet, writing near- 
ly at the same time, and under the same feelings to 
different individuals, would sometimes fall into the 
eame train of sentiment and forms of expression. To 
avoid, thereiure, the lediousness of such repetitions, it 
has been found necessary to mutilate many of the in- 
dividual letters, and sometimes to exscind parts of 
great delicacy— the unbridled effusions of panegyric 
and regard. But though many of the letters are 
printed'from originals furnished hy the persons to 
whom they were addressed, others are printed from 
first draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of 
our Bard. Though in general no man committed his 
thoughts to his correspCMulen's with less consideration 
cr effort than Burns, yei it appears that in some in- 
stances he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer character, or 
perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos of 
bis manuscripts, some of the original sketches were 
found ; and as these sketches, though less perfect, are 
fairly to be considered as the offsjjring of his mind, 
where they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 

* Dr. Currie's edition of Burns's Works was origi- 
nally published in four volumes, of which the follow- 
ing Correspondence formed the second. 



place in this volume, we have not hesitated to InneA 
them, though they may not always correspond exactly 
with the letters transmitted, which have been lost or 
withheld. 



Our author appears at one time to have formed an 
intention of makuig a collection of his letters for the 
amusement of a friend. Accordingly he copied an in- 
considerable number of them into a book, which he 
presented to Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq.— 
Among these was the account of his life, addressed to 
Doctor Moore, and printed in the first volume.* In 
copying from his imperfect sketches, (it does not ap- 
pear that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
respondents before him,) he seems to have occasionally 
enlarged his observations, and altered his expressions. 
In such instances his emendations have been adopted ; 
but in truth there are but five of Ihj letters thus se- 
lected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, 
the rest being thought of inferior merit, or otlierwise 
unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has found some 
corrections of grammar necessary ; but these have 
been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur 
in the careless effusions, even of literary cl.aractere, 
who have nol been in the habit of carrying their com- 
positions to the press. These corrections have never 
been extended to any habitual modes of expression of 
the poet, even where his phraseology may seem to vj. 
olate the delicacies of taste ; or the idion. of our lan- 
guage, which he wrote in general with great accuracy. 
Some diffei-ence will indeed be found in this respect in 
his earlier and in his later compositions ; and this 
volume will exhibit the piogi-ess of his style, as well as 
the history of his mind. In the fourth edition, several 
new letter s were introduced, and some of inferior im- 
portance were omitted. 

• Occupying from page 9 to page 16 of Ihia 



GENERAL CORRESPOXDEl^CE 



ROBERT BURNS 



LETTERS, &c. 



No. I. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 
SCHOOLAUSTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
LacMee, \oth January, 17S3. 
DEAR SIR, 

As I hare an opportunity of sending you a let- 
ter, without putting you to tliat expense which any 
production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it 
Wiih pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten nor 
ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to 
/our kioduess aud friendship. 

1 do cot doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know what 
has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent fa- 
ther, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish I could grat- 
ify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be 
pleased with ; but that is what 1 am afraid will not 
be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
vicious habits ; and in this respect, 1 hope my conduct 
Will not disgrace the education I have gotten : but 
a man of the world, 1 am most miserably deficient. — 
One would have thought that bred as 'l have been, 
under a father who has figured pretty well as iin horn 
me des affaires, I might have been what the world 
calls a pushing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the 
truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. 
} seem to be one sent into the world to see, and ob- 
serve ; and I very easily compound with the knave 
who tricks me of my money, if there be any thing ori- 
ginal about him which shows me human nature in a 
different light from any thing I have seen before. In 
ehort, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their 
manners, and their ways ;" and for tliis darling ob- 
lect, I cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration. I 
am quite indolent about those great concerns that set 
the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to 
answer for the present hour, I am very easy with re- 
gard to any thing further. Even the last worthy 
shift, of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrify me : I know that even then my talent 
for what country-folks call " a sensible crack." when 
once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me 
•o much esteem, that even then — I would learn to be 
happy.* However, I am under no apprehensions 
about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an ex- 
tremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy ; 
and in many things, especially in tavern -matters, 1 
am a sirici economist ; not indeed for the sake of the 
Tnor.ev, out one of the principal parts in my composi- 
hoQ ia a Kmd of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear 

• The latt sliift alluded to here, roust be the condi- 
liou of ail iiinarant beggar. 



the face of any man living ; above every thing, I ao- 
hor, as hell, the idea of sneaking In a corner to avoid 
adun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, whom in 
my hear: I despise and detest. 'Tisthis, and this 
alone, that endears economy to me. In the mattei* 
of books, indeed, 1 am very profuse. My favonrila 
authors are of the sentimental kind, such &3Shenalon&, 
particularly his £/egies; TTiomson ; Man of Feeling, 
a book I prize next to the Bible ; Man of the World; 
Sfeme, especially his Sentimental Journey ; M'Pher- 
son's Ossian, &c. These are the glorious modela 
after which I endeavour to form my conduct ; and 'tis 
incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man 
whose mind glows with the sentiments lighted up at 
their sacred flame— the man whose heart disterfda 
with benevolence to all the human race — he "who 
can soar above this little scene of things," can he de- 
scend to mind the paltry concerns about which the 
terrsefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? 
O how the glorious triumph swells my heart I I for- 
get that I am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs. anJ markets, 
when 1 happen to be in them, reading a page or two 
of mankind, and ' ' catching the manners living as they 
rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every 
side as an idle incumbrance in their way. But 1 daiB 
say [ have by this lime tired your patience ; so I shall 
conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch — not 
my comphments, for that is a mere common-place sto- 
ry, but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare ; 
and accept of the same for yourself from, Dear Sir, 
Your's, &c. 



No. II. 

The following is taken from the MS. Prose presented 
by our Bard to Mr. Riddel. 

On rummaging over some old papers, I lighted on a 
MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to 
write myself out, as 1 was placed by fortune among a 
class of men to whom my ideas would have been non- 
sense. I had meant that the book should have lain by 
me, in the fond hope that, some time or other, even 
afier I was no more, my thoughts would fall into tlic 
hands of somebody capable of appreciating their val- 
ue. It sets ofl" thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, Stc^ 
by R. B. — a man who had little art in making money, 
and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man 
of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbotmded 
good will to every creature rational and irrational.— 
As he was bu*. little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough tail, his performances must be 
strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic way o( 
life ; but as I believe they are really his own, it may be 
some entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, uo- 
der the preisurs of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with 



LETTERS. 



61 



tlt« like cares and passions, which, liowever diversi- 
fied by the modes and manners of lit'o, operate pretty 
3auch alike, I helieve, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do not want 
kcnse to make a figure, bo much as an opinion of their 
<»wn abilities, to put them upon recording their obser- 
fitions, and allowing them the same importance, 
which they do to those which appear tti print.' ' — Shen- 

** Pleasing, when youth is long expirM, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed 1 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the Softimage of our youthful mind." — Ibid. 

April, 1783. 
Notwilhslanding all that has been said against love, 
respecting the folly and weakness it leads a young in- 
experienced mind into; still 1 think it in a great 
measure deserves the highest encomiums that have 
been passed upon it. If any thing on earth deserves 
the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of 
green eighteen, in the company of the mistress of his 
bean, when she repays him with an equal return of 
aflection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion between love, 
and music, and poetry ; and tlierefore I have always 
thought a fine touch of nature, that passage in a mod- 
era love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least thought or 
inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily in 
love ; and then rhyme and sotig were, in a manner, 
the spontaneous language ol my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. 
Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, 
that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can 
imbitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of for- 
titude may bear up tolerably well under those calami- 
ties, in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or crimes 
liave made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with 
manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper 
penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious ef- 
fort of self command. 

" Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish. 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Has to say — ' It was no deed of mine ;' 

But when to all the evils of misfortune 

This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self !' 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, whei-e we've involved others ; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin I 

O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash I 

T/ives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

i'eels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

Alo, after proper purpose of amendment, 

wUi firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 

nappy! happy ! enviable man ! 

1 glorious magnanimity ofsuul!'' 



Marek, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of my experi- 
ence of human life, that every man, even the worst, 
has something good about liim; though very often no- 
thing else than a happy temperameiit of constitution 
inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, 
no man can say in what degree any other person, be- 
side himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. 
Let any of the strictest character for regularity of con- 
duct among us, examine impartially how many vices 
he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigi- 
lance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental 
circumstance intervening; how' many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out 
of the line of such temptation ; and, what often, if not 
always, weighs more than all the rest, how much he is 
indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world 
does not know all. I say any man who can thus think, 
will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that part 
of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase 
of blackguards, someliraps farther than was consist- 
ent with the safety of my character ; those who, by 
thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions have 
beendriven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes " stained with guilt, « • • • • •^" 
I have yet found among them, in not a few in- 
stances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, 
generosity, disinterested friendship, and even mod- 
esty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they knew 
such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have va- 
rious sources of pleasuieand enjoyment, which are, 
in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and 
there such other out-ofthe-way person. Such is the 
peculiar pleasure 1 take in the season of winter, more 
than the rest cf the year. This, I believe, may ba 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a 
melancholy cast ; but there is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 

Abrupt and deep,stretch'd o'er the buried earth."— 

which rises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable 
to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any 
earthly object gives me more — I do not know if 1 
should call it pleasure — but something which exalts 
me something which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a 
cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees and raving over the plain. It is amy 
best season for devotion ; my mind is rapt up in a kind 
of enthusiacTi to Him, who in the pompous language 
of theHoS.rew bard, " walks on the wings of the wind." 
In o-- jot these seasons just after a train of misfortunes, 
f woraposed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c.— Poems, p. 25. 

Shenslone finely observes, that love-verses writ wiih- 
it any real passion, are the most nauseous of all con- 
ceits ; and I have often thought that no man can be a 
proper critic of love composition, except ho himself, in 
one or more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As 1 have been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weak- 
nesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more 
confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery 
and conceit from real passion and nature. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, 1 will not pretend 
fo say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the lime genuine from the heart. 

Behind yon hills, &c.— See Poems, p. 40. 



I think the whole species of young ifien be nat- 
urally enough divided into two grand classis, which 



6^ 



LETTERS. 



•ball call tht grave and llie merry; though, by the by, 
these terraa do iiol with propriety enougl; express my 
ideas. The grave 1 shall cast into the usual divisioii 
of those who are goaded oa by the love of money, and 
those whose darling wish is to make a figure in itie 
world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of ail de- 
nominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire 
and spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but, with- 
out much deliberation follow the strong impulses of 
nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent 
—in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of 
natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, ip poverty and 
obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to 
him who can sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and that of oth- 
ers ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such as are, gen- 
erally, those whose heads are capable of all the tower- 
ings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all 
.ne delicacy of feeUng. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an in- 
tercourse with that Being to whom we owe our life, 
With every enjoyment that can render life delightful ; 
and to maintain an iniegrillve conduct towards our 
fellow-creatur«s ; that so, by forming piety and virtue 
into habit, we may be fit members of that society of the 
pious and the good, which reason and revelation leach 
us to except beyond the grave ; 1 do not see thai the 
turn of mind and pursuits of any son of poverty and 
obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred 
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, 
bustling and straining after the world's riches and 
honours ; and 1 do not see but that he may gain Hea- 
ven as well (which, by the by, is no mean considera- 
tion,) who steals through the vale of life, amusing him- 
self with every little flower, that fortune throws in his 
way ; as he who, straining straight forward, and per- 
haps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's 
little eminences ; where, after all, he can only see, and 
be seen, a little more conspicuously than what, in the 
pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor indolent 
devil he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tender- 
ness, in some of our ancient ballads, which show them 
to be the work of a masterly hand ; and it has often 
given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that such glori- 
ous old bards--bards who very probably owed all their 
talents to native genius, yet have described the ex- 
ploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the 
mehings of love, with such fine strokesof natuie — that 
tiieir very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vani- 
ty ) are now " buried among the wreck of things which 
were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel sn 
■trongly and describe so well : the last, the meanest 
of the muses' train — one who, though far inferior to 
your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trerabhng 
wing would sometimes soar alter you — a poor rustic 
bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your 
memory 1 Some of you tell us with all the charms of 
verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world — 
unfortunate in love ; he too has felt the loss of his little 
fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the 
loss of a woman he adored. Like you, all his conso- 
lation was his muse ; she taught him in the rustic mea- 
sures to complain. Happy could he have done it with 
your strength of imagination and fiow of verse! Alay 
the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives 
to the heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy and 
love 1 

Thie is all worth quoting in ray MS3 and more than 



No. III. 

TO MR. AIKEN. 

The Gentleman to whom T/ie Cotter' » Saturday Night 
is addressed. 

Ayrshire. 1786. 
SIR, 

1 was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and set- 
tled all our by-gciie matters between us. After 1 had 
paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the se- 
cond edition, on the hazard of being paid out of th« 
Jirst andreadiesl, which he declines. By his account 
the paper of a thousand copies would cost about tweo- 
ty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen ; he offers to agree to this for the piinling, if I will 
advance for the paper ; but this you know, is 'ut of my 
power, so farewell hopes of a second edition t 'Jl 1 grovr 
richer! an epocha, which, I think, will arrive at the 
payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in be- 
ing disappointeil of my second edition, as not having 
it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballan- 
tyne, by publishing my \>oem o( The Brigs of Ayr. I 
would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were 
capable, in a very long li!e, of forgetting the honest, 
warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into 
my interests. lam sometimes pleased with myself in 
mygratel'ul sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I 
have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a 
virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the 
instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to al- 
low worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish 
habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and 
mofvements within, respecting the excise. There are 
many things plead strongly against it, the uncertainty 
of getting soon into business, the conscvjucnces of my 
follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for 
me to stay at home ; and besides, I have for some time 
been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of disappoint- 
ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of 
remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like 
vultures, when attention is not called away by the 
calls of society, or the vagaries of the mnse. Even in 
the hour of social mirth, my gayety is the madness of 
an intoxicated criminal under the hands of an execu- 
tioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and 
to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feel- 
ings of a father. This, in the present mood lam in, 
overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale 
against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant fanov, 
but it is a sentiment which strikes home to niy 
very soul ; though sceptical in some points of our cur- 
rent beliel', yet, 1 think, I have every evidence for the 
reality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present 
existence ; if so, then how should 1, in the presence of 
that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to rae 
in the dear relation of children, whom 1 deserted in 
the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? O thou 
great, unknown Power! thou Almighty God! who 
has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me 
with immortality ! 1 have freiiucntly wandered fron» 
that order and regularity necessary for the perfection 
of thy works, yet thou hast nevt-r 'eft rae nor forsakea 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, 1 have fceen some- 
thing of the storm of mischief thickening over my lol- 
ly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my bene- 
factors, be successful in your applications for ma, per. 
haps it may not be in my power in that way to reap 
the fruitof your friendly eSbrts. What I have written 



LETTERS. 



63 



|n the prccc J.ng pages is tliesettled tenor of my present 
re«oiution; but should inimical circumstances forbid 
me closing with your kind offer, or, enjoying it, only 
threaten to entail father misery — 



To tell the truth. I have little reason for complaint, 
b3 the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up 
to my deserts. 1 was, for some time nasi, fast getting 
into the pining, distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. 1 
Baw myself alone, unlit for the struggle of life, shrnilc- 
ing at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmos- 
phere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 1 looked about 
ill vain for a cover, it never occurred to me, at least 
never with the force it deserved, that this world is a 
busy scene, and a man a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle ; and that however 1 might possess a 
warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by 
the by, was rather more than 1 could well boast) still, 
more than these passive qualities, there was some- 
thing to be done. When all my school-fellows and 
youthful compeers (those misguided lew excepted who 
joined, to use a Gentoo piirase, the hallachores of the 
numan race,) were striking off with eager hope and 
earnest intention some one or other of the many paths 
of busy life, I was standing ' idle in the market place," 
or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to wliim. 



You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors were a 
probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance, 
but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, 
though conviction must precede conversion, it is very 
far from always implying it.* 



No. IT. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire, 1786, 
MADAM, 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday when 
I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, 
and incomparably more by the handsome compliments 
you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully 
persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so 
feelingly alive to the titillations of applause, as the 
sons of Fainassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the 
heart ofthe poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
■whose character in life gives them a right to be polite 
judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you 
Deen thoroughly acquainted with me. Madam, you 
could not have touched my darling heart chord more 
sweetly than by noticing ray aitempts to celebrate 
your illu.strious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country, 

"Great patriot-hero ! ill requited chief!" 

The first book I met with in my early years, which I 
perused with pleasure, was T/ie Life of Hannibal; 
the next was The History of Sir William Wallace ; 
for several of my earlier years I had few other au- 
thors ; and many a solitary hour have 1 stole out, af- 
ter the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear 
over their glorious hut unfortunate stories, in those 
boyish days I remember in particular being struck 
with that part of Wallace's story where these lines 
occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

T chose a finesummer Sunday, the only day in my line 
i/lil'e allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay 

* This letter was evidently wri*- ♦.under the distress 
of mind occasioned by our Poet .. leparation from Mrs. 



my respects to Leglen wood, with as much derout tn- 
thusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, ai I ex- 
plored every den and dell, where I could suppose my 
heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for evec 
then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a 
wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits. 



No. V. 

TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1785. 
MADAM, 

'i'he hurry of my preparations for going abroad ha» 
hindered me from performing my promise as soon as I 
inlended, I have here sent a parcel of songs, &c. whiclj 
never made their appearance, except to a friend oi 
two at most. I'erhaps some of them may be no great 
entertainment to you ; but of that I am far from being 
an adequate judge. The song to the tune of £;rricA: 
Banks, you will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has 
some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of 
Nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of 
the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest, 
indeed, we know any thing of, an amiable, beautiful 
young woman ;* but 1 have no common friend to pro- 
cure me tliat permission, without which I would not 
dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world 
would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, 
when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, 
should heap the altar with the incense of flattery.-- 
Their highancestry, theirown great and godlike quali- 
ties and actions, should be recounted with the most 
exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for 
which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your con- 
nexions in life, and have no access to where your real 
character is to be found — the company of your com- 
peers ; and more, I am afraid that even the most re- 
fined adulation is by no means the road to your good 
opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember — the recep'.ion I got when 
I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am 
little acquainted with jioliteness ; but I know a good 
deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. 
Surely, did those in exalted stations know how happy 
they could make some classes of their inferiors by con- 
dcscention and aflability, they would never stand sa 
high, measuring out with every look the height of theii 
elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Ste 
wait cf Stair. 



VI. 

In the name ofthe nine. Amen. We Robert Burns 
by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date th» 
Twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thou 
sand seven hundred and fifty-nine, t Poet La ureal and 
Bard in Chief in and over the Districts and Countries 
of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent. To 
our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and 
John M Adam, Students and Practitioners in the an- 
cient a;Ki mysterious Scienre of Confounding Right 
and Wrong. 

RIGHT TRUSTY, 

Be i' t own unto you. That whereas, in the course 
of our care and walclwngs over the Order and Police c< 

' The song enclosed is the one beginning, 
'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, &c, 



64 



LETTERS. 



al! and surn'.ry llie Manufacturers, Retailers, and 
Fenders o{ Poesy ; Bards, f'oets, Poetasters. Rhym- 
ers, Jinglers, Songsters, Ballau-siiigers, &c., &c., 
&c., &a., &.C., male and female — We nuve discovered 
acertfiii, ' * ', nefarious, abominable, and Wicked 
Song, or B'Uad, a copy wiiereof We have here euclos 
ed; (/;/r Will tker.fore is that Ye pitch upon and 
ap])ointll)e most execrable Individual of that most exe- 
crable Species, known by the appellation, phrase, and 
nickname of The Veil's YellNowle;' and, after having 
caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall 
at noodtideof Iheday, put into the said wretch's merci- 
less hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wick- 
ed Song, to be consumed by lire in the presence of all 
Beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorum to all such 
Compositions a.ndComposers. And this in no wise leave 
ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this 
Our Mandate bears before the twenty fourth current, 
■when ill ptrson, we hope to applaud your faithfulness 
and zeal. 

Given at Mnwhline, this twentieth day of Novem- 
ber, Anpo Domini one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty-six. t 

GOD SAVE THE BARD! 



No. VII. 

DR. BLACKLOCK, 

TO THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, 
not only as a testim.ony of your kind remembrance, 
out as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the 
finest, and, perhaps, one of the most genuine enter- 
tainments, ot which the human mind is susceptible. A 
number of avocations retarded my progress in reading 
the poems; at last, however, 1 have finished that 
pleasing perusal. Many instances have 1 seen of Na- 
ture's force and beneficence exerted under numerous 
and formidable disadvantages ; but none equal to that 
with which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a 
vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, 
which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly 
approved ; and 1 think 1 shall never open the book 
without feeling my astonishment renewed and in- 
creased. It was my wish to have expressed my ap- 
probation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or 
a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out 
of my power to accomplish that agreeable iut«nlion. 

Mr. Stewart, Protessor o( Morals in tbls Universi- 
ty, had formerly read me three of the pocins, and I 
ha<l desired him to get my name inserted a£aot.g the 
subscribers ; but whether this was done, or noi, I 
never could learn. 1 have little intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems communi- 
cated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been lold me by a Gentleman, to whom 
I showed the performances, and who sought a copy 
with diligence and ardour, that the whole impression 
is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to 
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a sec- 
ond edition, more numerous than the former, could 
immediately be pi-inted : as it appears certain that its 
intrinsic merit and the exertion of the author's friends, 
might give it a more universal circulation thd^any 
thing of the kind which has been published within my 
memory. j 

* Old Bachelors. 

t Enclosed was the ballad, probably Holy Willie's 
Player. E. 

X The reader will perceive that this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our Bai-d to give 
n]i his scheme of going to the West Indies, and to try 
the fate of a new Edition of his Toems in Edinburgh. 



No. VIII. 

FROM THE REVEREND MR. LOWRIB. 

22d December, 1TO6. 
DEAR SIR, 

I last week received a letter from Dr. Blacklock, ia 
which be expresses a desire of seeing you, 1 write (hia 
to you, that you may lose no time in wailing upon him, 
should you not yet have seen him . 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame, 
and 1 wish and expect it may tower still highei'by the 
new publication. But, as a friend, I warn you to pre- 
pare to meet with your share of detraction and envy — 
a train that always accompany great men. For your 
comfort I am in great hopes that the number of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and that you have 
some chance of ministerial, or even « • • • • 
patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success is ve- 
ry uncommon : and do you think yoursull in no danger 
of siifl'ei-ing by applause and a full purse ? Bemeniber 
Solomon's advice, which he spoke from experience, 
" stronger is he that conquers," &c. Keen fast hold 
of your rural simplicity and purity, like 'I'elemachui, 
by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of 
Cyprus. 1 hope you have also Alinerva with you. I 
need not tell you how much a modest diffidence and 
invincible temperance adorn the most shining talents, 
and elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the iinagi- 
nation, even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from suspicion or 
evil report. 1 assure you 1 speak from love and good 
report, and good opinion, and a strong desire to see 
you shine as much in the sunshine as you have done in 
the shade ; and in the practice, as you do in the the- 
ory of virtue. This is toy prayer, in return for your 
elegant composition in verse. All here join in compli- 
ments and good wishes for your further prosperity. 



No. IX. 

TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 21tn December, 1786. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

1 confess I have sinned the sin for which there it 
hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship— in 
not writing to you sooner ; but of all men living, 1 had 
intended to send you an entertaining letter ; and hy 
all the plodding stupid powers that in nodding conceit- 
ed majesty preside over the dull routine of business— a 
heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have been ever 
since 1 came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of 
humour as to write a commentary on the Revelationt. 



To make you some amends for what, before you 
reach this paragraph you will have sufl'ered, I enclose 
you two poeiVis 1 have carded and spun since I passed 
Glenbuck. One blank in the address to Edinburgh, 

" Fair B ," is the heavenly Miss Burnet, dangh 

ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I had the hon- 
our to be more than once. There has not been any 
thing nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, 
grace, and goodness, the great Creator has formed, 
since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

1 have sent you a parcel of subscription-bills ; and 
have wri.len to Mr. Ballantyne and Mr. Aiken, to 
call on you for some of them, it they want them. My 

A copy of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. 
G. Hamilton, and by him communicated to Buras^ 
among whose papers it was found. 

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his family, 8e« 
the letter of Gilbert Burns to the Editor. 



LETTERS. 



65 



direction i»— care 
Bridge-ttreet. 



of Andrew Bruce, Merchant, 



No. X. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 
MY LORD, 

As 1 have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I 
cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the 
world ; but have all those national prejudices which, 1 
believe, grow peculiarly strong in the breast of a 
Scotchman. There is scarcely any thing to which I 
am so feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare of 
my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoy- 
ment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had 
cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but never 
did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be dis- 
tinguished ; though, till very lately, I looked in vain 
on every side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to 
guess how much I was gratified with the countenance 
and approbation of one of my country's most illustri- 
ous sous, when Mr. Wauchope called on me ytsterday 
on the part of your Lordship. Your munificence, my 
Ijord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknow- 
ledgments ; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly 
suited to my feelings. 1 am not master enough of the 
etiquette of life, to know whether there be not some 
impropriety in troubling your Lordship with my 
thanks ; but my heart whispered nie to do it. From 
the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingrat- 
itude, I hope, I am incapable of ; and mercenary ser 
viliiy, I trust I shall ever have so much honest pride as 
to detest. 



No. XI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 
MADAM, 

Yours of the 9th current, which T am this moment 
honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful 
neglect. I will tell yon the real truth, for I am miser- 
nblv awkward at a fib ; I wished to have written to 
Dri Moore before I wrote to you ; but though, every 
day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, 
the wish to write to him, has constantly pressed on my 
thoughts, yet 1 could not for my soul set about it. 1 
know his fame and character, and I am one of " the 
sons of little men." To write him a mere matter-of- 
fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgra- 
cing the little character 1 have ; and to write the au- 
thor of The View of Society and Manners a letter of 
sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at the 
thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to-mor- 
row or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf 
I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on 
me the other day on the part of Lord Eglington, with 
ten guineas, by way of subscription for two copies of 
my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have made 
of my glorious countryman and your immortal ances- 
tor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson; but it does 
not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my 
own judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- 
plied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
honour me with their critical strictures, and they all 
allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- 
collect, and 1 have not a coi)y of it. I have not com- 
posed anv thing on the great Wallace, except what 
you have seen in print, and the inclosed, which I will 
yrint in this edition.* You will see 1 have mentioned 

* Stanzas in f i« Vision, beginning " By stately 
ower or palace fair," and ending with the fust Duan. 



some others of the name. When I composed my 
Vision long ago, I attempted a description of Koyle, 
of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it 
originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to 
be able to do justice to the merits, of the Saviour oj 
his Country, which, sooner or later, I shall at least 
attempt. 

You are afraid 1 shall grow intoxicated with my 
prosperity as a poet. Alas I Madam, I know myself 
and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of 
affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my 
abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlight- 
ened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and 
hi,s been the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite 
books, and polite company— to be dragged forth to the 
full glare of learned and jiulite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude un- 
polished ideas on my head — I assure you, Maaam, . 
do not dissemble when 1 tell you I tremble for the con- 
sequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situa- 
tion, without any of those advantages which are reck- 
oned necessary for that character, at least at this 
time of day, lias raised a partial tide of public notice, 
which has borne me to a height where 1 am absolute 
ly feelingly certain my abilities are inadequate to 
support me ; and toosi;>-ely do I see that time wher 
the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, ai 
far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in tht 
ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. 
1 have studied myself, and know what ground I occu- 
py ; and, however a friend or the world may differ 
from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion 
in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of prosper- 
ty. I mention this to you, once for all, to disburden 
my mind, and 1 do not wish to hear or say more aboul 
it. But 

" When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedea," 

you will bear me witness, that, when ray bubble of 
fame was at the highest, I stood, unintcxicated, with 
the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with 
rueful resolve to the hastening time when the blow of 
Calumny should dash it to the ground, with ail the 
eagerness of vengeful triumph. 



Your patronising ti.c, and interesting yourself in my 
fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts 
me in my own idea ; and whether you can or cannot 
aid me in my suhsciiption is a trifle. Has a paltry 
subscription-bill any cliarms to the heart of a bard, 
compared with the patronage of the descendant of 
the immortal Wallace } 



No. XII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

1787. 
SIR, 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me ex 
tracts of letters she has had from you, where you do 
the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and hig 
works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solici- 
tude of authorship, can only know what pleasure :t 
gives to be noticed in such a manner by judges oi me 
first character. Your criticisms, Sir, 1 receive with 
reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too 
late ; a peccant passage or two, that I would certainly 
have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to he admired for ages is, in by far the 
greater part of those even who were authors of repute, 
an unsubstantial dream. For my jiart, my first am- 
bition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please 
my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while 
ever-changing language and manners shall allow me 
to be relished and understood. I am very willing tA 
admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and ail«-<r 



66 



LETTERS. 



If any writers, either moral or political, are intimately 
acqiiaiiiled with the classes of mankind among whom I 
have chiefly minsleil, I may have seen men and man- 
ners in a different phasis from what is common, wliich 
may assist originality of thought. Still I know very 
well the novelty of my character has by far the great- 
est share in the learned and polite notice I have lately 
had ; and in a language where Hope and Churchill 
have raised ihe laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn 
the tear — where Thomson and Beattie have painted 
the landscape, and Lyttletonand Collins desciilied the 
heart, I am uol vain enough to hope for distinguished 
poetic fume. 



No. XIII. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford-street, January 23<i, 1787. 



SIR, 

I hare just received your letter, by which I find 1 
have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for 
transmitting to vou extracts from my letters to her, 
by much too freely and too carelessly written for your 
perusal. I must forgive her, however, in considera- 
tion of her good intention, as you will forgive me, 1 
hope, for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
Jn consideration of my admiration of the poems in gen- 
eral. If I may judge of the author's disposition from 
his works, with all the good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of men 
by one of their own number, whom you havethe hap- 
piness to resemble in ease and curious felicity o( ex- 
pression. Indeed the poetical beauties, however ori- 
ginal and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all 
I admire in your works ; the love of your native coun- 
try, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of human- 
ity, and the independent spirit which breathes through 
the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the 
poet, and have made me often regret that I did not see 
the poems, the certain effect of wliich would have been 
my seeing the author last summer, when I was longer 
in Scotland than 1 have been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement you re- 
ceive at Edinburgh, and I think you peculiarly fortun- 
ate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, who I am informed 
interests himself very much for you. I beg to be le- 
menvbered to him ; nobody can have a warmer regard 
for that gentleman than I have, which, independent 
of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. George 



Before I received your letter, I sent inclosed in a let- 
ter to , a sonnet by Miss Williams a youns poe- 
tical lady, which she wrote on reading your Mountain- 
Daisy ; perhaps it may not displease you.' 

I have been trying to add to theniimberof your sub- 
scribers, but find many of my acquaintance are already 

* The Sonnet is as follows : 
While soon " the garden's flaunting flow'rs" decay 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie. 
The "Mountain-Daisy," cherish'd by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah ! like the lonely flower the poet rose I 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale : 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nursed, 

On nature v/ith impassion'd look he gazed. 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in the light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude afflictions shield thy bard, 

Uis heavea-taughl numbers Fame herself will guard. 



among them. 1 have only to add, that with every 
sentiment of esteem and the most cordial good wishes, 
I am, 

Your obedient, humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE REV. G. LOWRIE, OF NEW-MILLS, 
NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Edinburgh, 5th Feb. 1787. 
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, my 
heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in neg- 
lecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you 
with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried 
life and distracted attention : do me the justice to be- 
lieve that my delay by no means proceeded from want 
of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel, for you, the 
mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend, and rever- 
ence for a lather. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for your friendly 
hints ; though 1 do not need them so much as my 
friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with 
newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but in reali- 
ty, I have no great temptation to be intoxicated with 
the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the atten- 
tion of mankind awhile ; to it I owe my present eclat ; 

ut I see the lime not far distant, when the popular 
tide, which has borne me to a height of which I, am per- 
haps unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and 

eave me a barren waste of sand , to descend at my leis- 
ire to my former station. I do not say this in the af 
fectalion of modesty ; I see the consequence is una 
voidable, and am prepared for it. 1 had been at a 
good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers, before I came here ; I have 
not added, since 1 came to Edinburgh, any thingto the 
account ; and trust 1 shall take every atom of it back 
to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early 
years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have 
found, what I would have expected in our friend, a 
clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edin- 
burgh must be placed to the account of Miss Lowrie 
and her piano-forte. I cannot help repeating to you and 
Mrs. Lowrie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the ce- 
lebrated 'Man of Feeling,' paid to Miss Lowrie the oth- 
er night, at the concert. 1 had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him, till 1 saw Miss Lowrie in a seat 
not far distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. 
On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me who she 
was ; I told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend 
friend of mine in the west country. He returned, 
There was something very striking, to his idea, in her 
appearance. On my desiriiigto know what it was, he 
was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the ele- 
gance of a well brea lady about her, with all the sweet 
simplicity of a country-girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of Saint 
Margarets. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

ROBT. BURNS. 



XV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 



SIR 



Edinburgh, I5th February, 1737. 

I'ardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to 
acknowledge the honour you have done me, in yoiir 
kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many mouths 



LETTERS. 



67 



ago, I knew no other employment than following the 
plough, nor could boast any thing higher thiuia clistar.l 



: with a country clergyii 



ete great 



nese never embarrasses me ; 1 have nothing to ask Irom 
the great, a.ul I do not fear their judgment ; but 
genius, polished liy learning, and at its proper point 
of elevation in tlie eye ot the world, this of late 
1 frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. 
I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover 
self conceit. That 1 have some merit, I do not deny; 
but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novelty of my character, and the honest national 
jjrejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a 
hci<;hl altogether untenable to my abilities. 

Tor the houour Miss W. has done me, please, Sir, 
return her, in my name, my most gratelul thanVs. I 
have more than once thought of paying her in kind, 
but have hitherto quitted the idea in ho|)eless despon 
ilency. I had never before heard of her ; but the olh 
f r day I got her poems, which for several reasons, 
some belonging to the head, and others the offspring ol 
the heart, gave me a great deal of pleasure. 1 have lit- 
tle pretensions to critic bre ; there are, I think, two 
chaiHcteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered 
wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
tenderness of time-settled sorrow. 

I only know what pleases me, often without being 
able to tell why. 



No. XVI. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

CHfford-Street,Kth February, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal of plea- 
sure. It is not surprising that you improve in correct- 
ness and taste, considering where yon have been for 
some lime past. And 1 dare swear lliere is no danger 
»f your admitting any polish which might weaken the 
figour of your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nauseous 
affectation of decrying your own merit as a poet, an 
*fi"ectation which is displayed with most ostentation 
by those who liave the greatest share of of self-conceit, 
and which only adds undeceiving falsehood to disgust- 
ing vanity. For you to deny the merit of your 
poems, would be arraigning the fixed opinion of the 
public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society is not yet 
ready, I have sent you the former edition, which 1 beg 
you will accept as a small mark of my esteem. It is 
ieiit by sea to the care of Mr. Creech ; and along with 
these four volumes lor yourself. I have also sent my 
Aledical ^Sketches, ii> one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop, of Dunlop : this, you will be so obliging a» to 
transmit, or, if you chance to pass soon by Dunlop, 
to give to h«r. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is so am- 
ple, and shall rejoice at every piece of good fortune 
that befalls you, tor you are a very great favourite in 
my family ; and this is a higher complimentthan, per 
haps, you are aware of. It includes almost all the 
professions, and, of course, is a proof that your writ 
ings are adapted to various tastes and situations. My 
youngest son, who is at Winchester School, writes to 
me that he is translating some stanzas of your Hallow 
E'en into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. 
This union of taste partly jiroceeds, no doubt, from 
the cement of Scottish partiality, with which tliey are 
all somewhat tinctured. Even your translator, who 
left Scotland too early in life for recollection, is not 
witbou' it 



I remain, with gi-eat sincerity, 

Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XVII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAlRN. 

Edinburgh, 1781. 
MY I-ORU. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your Lordship, 
which I was told was to l*e got in town ; but 1 am tru- 
ly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled 
a " human face divine." The enclosed stanzas I in- 
tended to have written below a picture or profile of 
your Lordship, could 1 have been so happy as to pro- 
cure one with any thing of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, T wanted to 
have something like a material object for my gratitude ; 
I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, 
There is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. 
Allow, me, my Lord, to publish these verses. 1 con- 
jure your Lordship, by the honest throe of gratitude, 
by the generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings which comp>ose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe much to yout 
Lordship ; and, what hae not in some other instances 
always been the case with me, the weight of the obliga- 
tion is a pleasing load. I trust 1 have a heart asindc 
pendent as your Lordship's, than which I can say no 
thing more : And I would not be beholden to favours 
that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified cha- 
racter in life, and manner of supporting that charac- 
ter, are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jealous 
of the purity of my grateful attachment where I waa 
under the patronage of one of the much-favoiued son* 
of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, parti 
cularly when they were names dear to fame, and il 
lustrious in their country ; allow me, ;hen, mj 
Lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, 
to tell the world bow much I have th£ honour to be. 
Your Lordship's highly indebted, 

and ever grateful humble servant. 



No. XVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

MY LORD, 

The honour your Lordship has done me, by youi 
notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, 1 sbal 
ever gratefully remember : 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your Lordship touches the darling chord of mf 
heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at Scot- 
tish story and Scottish scenes. 1 wish for nothing 
more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my 
native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard- 
contended fields where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her 
bloudy lion borne through broken ranks to victory 
and fame ; and catching the inspiration, to pour the 
deathless names in song. But, my Lord, in the 
midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, 
dry, moral-looking phantom strides across my imagina- 
tion, and pronounce these emphatic words : 

" I wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend I do no* 
come to open the ill closed wounds of your follies and 
misfortunes, merely to give yon pain; I wish throng*) 
these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. 
I will not mention how many of my salutary advices 
you have despised ; 1 have given you line upon line, 
and precept upon precepS ; and while I was chalking 
out to you the straight way to wealth and character, 

* It does not appear that the Earl granted thu tfk- 
quest, nor have the verses alluded to been found amonK 
the MSS. E. 



LETTERS. 



No. XX. 



with audacioui effrontery, you have tig-tagged across . unanimously, grant power and liberty to the Mid R» 
the path, coalemiiiiig n>e to my lace; you know the I beii tiurns lo eiecla heaitstone ot thegruve of theiaid 
coi'.aequeiicea. It is not yei ihiee monllia since home Kobert Fei'f;iissuu, audio keep up ami preserve tha 
wa^ so hot for you, that y~>u were on the wing for same to Ins memory in nil limo conung. JcIxlractMl 
the western shore of the Ailiintic, uol to make a lor- forth of the records'of the manugers, by 
tune, but to hide your misfortune, WILLIAM SiKOT, CUrk. 

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia ptits it in your 
power to return to the situation of your fore rmhers. 
Will vnu follow these VVill o'-V\isp meteors of fancy 
and whim, till they bring you ouce more to the brink 
of ruin.'' 1 grunt thHt the utmost ground you can oc- 
cupy is bui half II step from tlie veriest poverty ; but 
• till it is half u step from it. If all tliul I can urge be 
ined'ectual, let her who sohlom calls to you in viiin, let 
the call of pride, prevail with you. Vou know how 
you feel at the grip of ruthless oppression ; you know 
now you bear the gnlliiig sneer of conlumelous great- 
ness. I hold you out the conveniences the romlorts of 
life, independence and character, on the one liuiid ; 1 
tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness, 
on the other, 1 will not insuli your uuderslauduig by 
bidding you make a choice.*" 



This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I must return to 
my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my 
wonted way at the ploiigh-iail. Still, my Lord, while 
the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear 
Joved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude 
to those her distinguished sons, who have honoured 
me 80 much with their patronage ami approbation, 
■hall while stealing through my humble shade's, ever 
distend my bosom, and at limes, aj uuw, draw forth 
the swelUng tear. 



No. XIX. 

Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect 
and keep up a Headstone in memory of I'oet Ker- 
gusson, nsi. 



Sassion House wilMn the Kirk of Cannongate, the 
tioentysecond day of February, one thoitsaiid seven 
hundred and eighlt/ secen years. 

SEDERUNT OP THE MANAGERS OF THE 
KIRK AND KIRK-YAKD FUNDS OE CAN- 
NONGATE. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced 
a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the sixth cur- 
rent, which was lead, and appointed to be engrossed 
In their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor 
follows : " To the Honourable Dailies of Cannongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told, that 
the remains of Robert Eevgusson, the so justly cele- 
brated poet, a man whose talents, for ages to come, 
will do honour to our Caledonian name, lie in your 
church-yard, among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and 
unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers 
of Scottish Song, when they wish to shed a tear, 
over the ' narrow house' of the bard who is no more, 
is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's memory; a 
tribute 1 wish to have the honour of paying. 

" r petition you, then, gentlemen, to permit me to 
lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an 
luialienable properly to his deathless fame. 1 have the 
honour to be. Gentlemen, your very obedient servant, 
(sic subscribitur,) 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of 
the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, 
aud the propriety of his request, did and hereby do. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

Vou may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, 
ungratetui fellow, having received so many repeated 
instances o:[ kindness from you, and yet never piUimg 
pen to paper to say— iliaiik you : but if you knew what 
a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that ac- 
count, your good heart would lUlvik yourself too much 
avenged. By the by, there is noihing in the whole 
frame of man which seems lo me so unaccountable a* 
that thing called conscience. Hatl the troublesome, 
yelping cur powers ellicient to prevent a mischief, ha 
might be of use ; but at the begianing of the business, 
his feeble eflbrts are lo the workings of passion as the 
inlaiit frosts ol an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
lervotii' of the rising sun : aii<l no sooner are the tu- 
multuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst 
the bitter native consequences of lolly in the very vor- 
tex of our horrors, up starts conscience, aud hartowi 
us with the feelings ot the d"**". 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, soma 
verse and prose, that if they merit a place in your 
truly eiitertainiiig iniscelluny, you are welcome lo. 
The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprol sent 
it me. 

The Inscription of the stone is as folloxos : 

HERE LIES 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, I6th October, 1774. 

No sculptur'd Marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'' No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour Iter sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the stone is as foliates : 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial place is 
to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert 
Fergusson." 



< No. XXI. 

Extract of a Letter from . 

8lh March, 1787. 
I am truly happy to know that you have found a 
friend in • « • • • | his patronage of you does 
him great honour. He is truly a good man ; by far 
the best I ever knew, or, |)erhaps, ever shall know, iu 
tills world. But 1 must not speak all 1 think of him, 
lest 1 should be thought partial. 

So you have obtaiijed liberty from the magistrates to 
erect a stone over Fergusson's grave .'' I do not doubt 
it; such things have been, as Shakspeare says, " in 
the olden time :" 

" The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd foi- bread, and he receiv'da atone." 



• Copied from the Bee, vol. 
vitb the Author's MSS. 



. 319, and compared j it is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that this is 
I written. But bow many brothers of Fernassus, as well 



LETTERS. 



M poor Butler, and poor FurgiiBson, have asked for 
bread, and been served the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they? 
generous maifistrates I ••»•••• cele- 
craied over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
givis a poor poet hberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's 
nii;in)ry I most gracious ! • • • • once upon a 
liirie Ejave that same poet the mighty gum of eighteen 
neiice for a copy of his works. iJut then it must be 
considered that the poet was at that lime absolutely 
starving, and besought his aid with all the earnestness 
cfhuriger; and over and above, he received a • • • * 
Wintli, at least one third of the value, in exchange, but 
7()iich, I believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully 
txijunged. 

Next week I hope lo have the pleasure of seeing you 
n Kilitjburgh ; and as my stay will be for eight lo ten 
il.iys, I wish you or • " " * would take a snug well- 
aired bed-room for me, where I may have the plea 
euie of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But, by 
all accounts, it will be a mailer of some difficulty to 
see yon at all, unless your company is bespoke a week 
before-hand. There is a rumour here concerning 

your gnat intimacy with the Dutchess of , and 

othfr ladies of dislinction. I am really told that 
" cards lo nivite fly by thousands each night;" and, 
if you h.id one, I suppose there would also be " bribes 
to your old secretary." It seems you are resolved to 
make hay whde the sun shines, and }ivoid, if possible, 
the fate of poor FcrgusPon, • • • • • Qnanendn p"- 
cu/iia pii/nuin est, virtus post mimmos, is a good 
maxim lo thrive by ; you seemed lo despiae it while in 
Ihis country ; but proliably some philosopher in Kdiii- 
ouj-gh has taught you better sense. 

Praj, are you yet engraving as well as printing I — 
Are you yet seized 

" With itch of pictitre in the front, 
With bays and wicked rhyme upon't ?" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend to 
matters iImI more concern myself; so, as the Aber- 
deen wit «ays, adieu dryly, we sal drink pfiun we 
meet.' 



XXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 
MADAM, 

1 read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very 
little while ago, / had scarce a friend bat the stub- 
born pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, 
raironized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, 
will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I re- 
ceive with reverence. I have made some small altera- 
tions in what I before had printed. 1 have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among the literati here, 
but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim 
the privilege of thinking for myself. The tioble Karl 
of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than lo any man, 

• The above extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest of our I'oet's correspondents, which contains 
some interpsting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we 
should have been hapjiy lo have inserted, if they could 
have been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in 
supposing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share 
in the transaction respecting the monument erected 
for Fergussun by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed 
between iiunisand the Kirk-Session of (heCanongate. 
Neither at Kdinburgh nor any where eUe, do magis- 
trates usually trouble themselves to inquire how the 
bouse of a poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is 
fcdomed. E. 



does me the honour of giving me his strictures ; hii 
hints, wiih respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I fol- 
low implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future viewa 
and prospects ; there I can give you no light :— it is 
all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roU'd together, or had Iry'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bardis by far the high- 
est pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most exalt- 
ed ambition. Scoltiiih scenes and Scottish story are 
the themes I could wish to sing. 1 have no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagucd with the rou- 
tine of business, for, which, heaven knows I I am unfit 
enough, lo make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledo- 
nia ; to sil on the field of her battles ; to wander on the 
»omaniic banks of her riveis; and lo muse by the 
stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied 
long enough with life ; 'lis time to be in earnest. 1 
have a fond, an aged mother locate for; aad som* 
other bosom lies perhaps equally lender. 

Where the individual only suflerg by the conse* 
quences of his own thoughtlessnesi, indolence, or folly, 
he may be excusable ; nay, shining abilities, and some 
of the nobier virtues may halfsanctily a heedltbg 
character : but where God and nature have intrusted 
the welfare of others to his care, where ihe trust is 
sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far 
gone in selfishnesg, or strangely lost lo reflection, 
whom these connexions will nut rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear belwee.: two and three hun^ 
dred jiounds by my authorship : with that sum I in- 
tend, so far as I may be said to have any intention, to 
return lo my old acquaintance, the plough ; and if I 
can meet with a lease by which 1 can live, to com- 
mence farmer. I do not intend lo give up poetry ; be- 
ing bre'l to labour secures me independence, and Ihe 
mutes are my chief, sometimes have been my only 
employment. If my practice second my resolution, I 
shall have principally at heart the serious business of 
life ; but, while toUowing my plough, or budding up 
my shocks, 1 shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, 
that only feature of my character, which gave me the 
notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wal- 
lace. 

Thug, honoured Madam, I bare given you the bard, 
his situation, and his views, native as they are in hi* 
own bosb.n. 



XXIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. 
MADAM, 

There is an aflTectation of gratitude which I dislike. 
The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne, may 
hide a selfish heart. For my part. Madam, I trust I 
have loo much pi ide for servility, and too little pru- 
dence for selfishness. 1 have this moment broken open 
jour letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech 
And therefore little can I grace my cauje 
In speaking for myself" — 

so T shall not trouble you with any fine speeches ana 
hunted figures. 1 shall just lay my hand on my heart, 
and say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the ' 
est, sense of your goodness. 



LETTERS. 



I come abroad in print for certain on Wednesday 
Four orders 1 shall punctually attend to ; only, by the 
way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. 
Moore'* .nd Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can 
•eltle when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr Sraith* was just gone to London the morning 
before 1 received your letter to him. 



No. XXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE, 

Edinburgh, 23i April, 1787. 
I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned 
to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in heating the coverts 
of imagination for metaphors of gratitude. 1 thank 
you, Sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to 
my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be high- 
ly pleased with your book,' is what I have in common 
with the world ; but to regard these volumes as a mark 
of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme 
gratification. 

1 leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a 
fortnight ; and, after a few pilgrimages over some of 
:he classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden Knowts, 
Banks of YaiTow, Tweed, &c. 1 shall return to my 
rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 
1 have formed many intimacies and friendships here, 
but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construc- 
tion to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have 
no equivalent to offer ; and 1 am afraid my meteor ap- 
pearance will by no means entitle me to a settled cor 
respoudence with any of you, wlio are the permanent 
lights of genius and literature. 

Mv most respectful compliments to Miss W. If 
once this tangent flight of mine were over, and 1 were 
returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old cir- 
cle, I may probably endeavour to returu her poetic 
compliment in kind. 



No. XXV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, ZOth April, 1787. 
Your criticisms. Madam, I understand very 
well, and could have wished to have pleased you bet- 
ter. You are right in your guess that I am not very 
amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have 
so flattered those who possessed the advent'lious qual- 
ities of wealth and power, tl.at ! am determined toflat- 
ter no created being either iu piose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c. 
as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. 1 
know what 1 may expect from the world by and by — 
illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite 
pieces are distinguished by your particular approba- 
tion. For my Dream, which has unfortunately incur- 
red your loyal displeasure, I hope in lour weeks, or 
less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop, in its 
defence, in person. 



No. XXVT. 

TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 
Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 
REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTED SIR, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not 
go without troubling you with half a line sincerely to 

* Adam Smith. 



thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship 
you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment 
of my singflar situation ; drawn forth from the veriest 
shades of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my country, 
whose works, while they are applauded to tlie end of 
time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However 
the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world 
might attract notice, and honour me with ths ac- 
quaintance of the permanent lights of genius and liter- 
ature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal 
nature of man ; I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that 
character when once the novelty was over, 1 have 
made up my mind, that abjse, or almost even neglect, 
will not surprise me in my quarters. 

! have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work 
for me, done on India paper, as a trifling but sincere 
testimony with what heart-warm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XXVII 



FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle-Square, Edinburgh, ith May. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 was favoured this forenoon with your very obliging 
letter, together with an impression of your portrait, 
for which 1 return you my best thanks. The success 
you have met with 1 do not think was beyond youi 
merits ; and if I have had any small hand in con 
tribnting to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know ni 
way in which literary persons, who are advanced in 
years, can do more service to the world, than in for 
warding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing forth 
unknown merit from obscurity. 1 was the first peison 
who brought out to the notice of the world, the poems 
of Ossian : first, by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry 
which I published, and afterwards by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and publishing the 
Works of Ossian ; and I have alwaya considered 
this as a meritorious action of ray life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singu- 
lar ; and, in being brought out all at once from the 
shades of deepest privacy, to so great a share of public 
notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. 
I am happy that you have stood it so well ; and, as 
far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of 
many temptations, without reproach to your character 
and behaviour. 

Yon are now, I presume, to retire to a more private 
walk of life ; and, I trust, will conduct yourself there, 
with industry, prudence, and honour. You have 
laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the 
midst of those employments, which your situation will 
render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote 
that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it as may liaise your char- 
acter still higher. At the same time, be not in too 
great a haste to come forward. Take time and leisure 
to improve and mature your talents ; for on any sec- 
ond production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, 
will very much depend. There is, no doubt, a glosa 
of novelty which time wears off. As you very pro)jer- 
ly hint yourself, you are not to be surprised, if, in 
your rural retreat, ynu do not find yourself surrounded 
with that glare of notice and applause which here 
shone upon you. No man can be a good poet, without 
being somewhat of a philosopher. He must lay his 
account, that any one, who exposes himself to public 
observation, will occasionally meet with the attacks 
of illiberal censure, which it is always best to overlook 
and despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will 
not affect to shine always, that he may at propersea- 
soiis come forth with more advantage and energy. He 
will not think himself neglected, if he be not always 
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old 
man, to give advice and make reflections which youiT 
own good sense will, I dare say, render uanecesaar^ 



LETTERS. 



71 



As you mention your being just about to leave town, 

?'ou are going, I should suppose, to Dumfries-shire, to 
ook at some of Mr. Miller's farms. I heartily wish 
the offers to be made you there may answer, as I am 
persuaded you will not easily find a more generous and 
better-hearted proprietor to live under, than Mr. Mil- 
ler. When you return, it you comelhisvvay, I will 
be happy to see you, and to know concerning your fu- 
ture plans of life. You will find me by the 'Hd of this 
month, net in my house in Argyle square, but at a 
country-house at Hestalrig, about a mile east from Ed- 
inburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
success and prosperity, I am, with real regard and es- 



Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVIII. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-Street, May, 23, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. Creech, and 
soon after he sent me the new edition of your poems. 
You seem to think it incumbent on you to send to 
each subscriber a number of copies proportionate to 
his subscription-money ; but you may depend upon it, 
few subscribers expect more than one copy, whatever 
they subscribed. 1 must inform you, however, that I 
took twelve copies for those subscribers for whose mo- 
ney you were so accurate as to send me a receipt ; 
and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
for himself, as he wished to give five of them as pres- 
ents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this last edi- 
tion are very beautiful, particularly the Winler Night, 
the Address to Edinburgh, Green glow the Rashes, 
and the two songs immediately following ; the latter 
of which is exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have 
a peculiar talent for such compositions, which you 
ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more 
delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired 
on account of his Odes than all his other writings. 
But nothing now added is equal to your Vision, and 
Cotter's Saturday Night. In these are united fine 
iinagery, natural and pathetic description, with sub- 
limity of language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression and com- 
mand of the English language, you ought, therefore, 
to deal more sparingly for the future in the provincial 
dialect : why should you, by using thtU, limit the num- 
ber of your admirers to those who understand the 
Scottish, when you can extend it to all persons of taste 
who understand the English language .'' In my opin- 
ion you should plan some larger work thani any you 
have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon some 
proper subject, and arrange the plan in your mind, 
without beginning to execute any part of it till you 
have studied most of the best English poets, and read 
a little more of history. The Greek and Roman sto- 
ries you can read in some abridgment, and soon be- 
come mas'.er of the most brilliant facts, which must 
highly delight a poetical mind. You should also, and 
very soon may, become master of the heathen mythol- 
ogy, to which there are everlasting allusions in all the 
poets, and which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
will require to be studied with more attention, is mod- 
ern history ; that is, the history of France and Great 
Britain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's 
reign. I kiiow very well you have a mind capable of 
attaining knowledge by a shorter process than is com 
monly used, and I am certain you are capable of ma- 
king a belter use of it, when attained, than is generally 
done. 

* The poems subsequently composed will bear testi- 
mony to the accuracy of Dr. Moore's judgment. 



I begyou will not give yourself the trouble of writing 
to me when it is inconvenient, and make no ipology 
when you do write, fur having postponed ii : be assu- 
red of this, however, that r shall always be happy to 

hear from you . I think my friend Mr. told me 

that you had some poems in manuscript by you, of a 
satirical and humorous nature, {in which, by the way, 
1 think you very strong,) which your prudent friends 
prevailed on you to omit ; particularly one called 
Someboiys Confession ; 17 you will intrust me with 
a sight of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no 
copies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal of them, 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and make 
the useful and respectable business of husbandry your 
chief occupation ; this, I hope, will not prevent your 
making occasional .addresses to tne nine ladies who 
have snovvn you sucn favour, one of whom visited you 
in the auld clay l/ig gin. Virgil, before you, proved to 
the world, that there is nothing in the business of hus- 
bandry inimical to poetry ; and i sincerely hope that 
you may afford an example of a good poet being a suc- 
cessful farmer. I fear it will not be in my power to 
visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to 
find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse 
with you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, 
1 make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you 
may depend on a very cordial welcome from this fam- 
ily. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 

TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OFATHOLE. 

Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just time to write the foregoing,* and to tell 
you that it was (at least most part of it,) the effusion 
of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do net mean it was 
extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as 

well as Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the 

chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts 
of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble fam- 
ily of Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly 
boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my 
hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The " little angel band !" I declare I prayed for 
them very sincerely to day at the Fall of Fyers I 
shall never forget the fine family-piece 1 saw at Blair ; 
the amiable, the truly noble Dutchess, with her smi- 
ling little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table ; 
the lovely " olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely 
says, round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C, &c. 1 wish I had 

the powers of Guide to do them justice. My Lord 
Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind indeed ! Mr. 

G. of F — 's charms of conversation — Sir W. M 'a 

friendship. In short, the recollection of all that po. 
lite, agreeable company, raises an honest glow in m/ 
bosom. 



No. XXX. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, nth Sept. 1787 
MYDEAR BROTHER, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tout of 
twenty-two days, and travelUng near six hundred 

* The humble Petition of Bruar Water to tba Dukt 
of Athole. See Poeme, p. 72. 



72 



LETTERS. 



mOM windings included. My farthest stretch was 
about *.en miles beyond Inverness. 1 weni ihroiigli 
the heart of the Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the 
famous »eat of the Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and Dmidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld.a seat oflhe Duke of Athole ; thence cross 
Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of 
Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where 1 had the 
honour of spending nearly two days wiih his Grace 
and family ; thence many miles through a wild coun- 
try, among chffs gray with eternal snows, and gloomy 
savage glens, till 1 crossed Spey and went down the 
stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish mu- 
sic, Badenoch, &c. till I reached Grant Castle, where 
I spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family ; 
and then crossed the country for Fort George, but 
called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Mac- 
beth ; there I saw the identical bed in which, tradition 
says. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort 
George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and 
BO on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stonehive, where James 
Biirness, from Montrose, met me, by appointment. I 
spent two days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean aud Isabel, still aLive, and hale old women. 
John Caiid, though born the same year with our fa- 
ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have had sev- 
eral letters from his son in New-York. William 
Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further par- 
ticulars I delay till I see you, which will be in two or 
three weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth re- 
hearsing ; warm as I was from Ossian's country, 
where I had seen nis very grave, what cared I for fish- 
ing towns or fertile carses .'' I slept at the famous Bro- 
die of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon Castle 
next day with the Duke, Dutchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause mv old mare to meet me, by means of 
John Ronald, at Glasgow . but j'ou shall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty, and 
many compliments, from the north, to my mother, and 
my brotherly compliments to the rest. 1 have been try- 
ing fop-a birth for William, but am not likely to be 
successful. Farewell ! 



No. XXXI. 



FROM MR. R**"*. 

Ochtertyre, 22(i October, 1787. 
SIR, 

'Tu'as only yesterday I got Colonel Edmondstoune's 
answer, that neither the words of D-jwntheBum Da- 
vie, nor Daintie Davie, (I forgot which you mention- 
ed,) were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time 
] meet him, I will inquire about bis cousins poetical 
talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and a 
letter to Mr. Young, whose company and musical 
talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast to you.' No- 

* These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, 
ire as follows : 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 
For the Salictum' of Ochtertyre. 
Salubritatis voluptatisque causa, 
Hoc Salictum, 
Paludem olim infidam, 
Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 



SiWulas inter naseentes reptandi, 
Apiumque laboras suspiciendi, 
Fruor. 
Hie, si fazit Deus, opt. max. 

• Salietum—Groye of Willows. Willow-ground. 



body can give you better hints, as to your present 
plan than he. Receive also Omeron Cameron, which 
seemed to make such a deep impression on your ima- 
gination, that I am not without hopes it will beget 
something to delight the public in due time ; and, no 
doubt, the circumstances of this little tale might be 
varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral 
comedy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron at 
home, whilst his countrymen were in the field. His 
station may be somewhat varied, without losing hii 
simplicity and kindness. ♦ • * a group of charac- 
ters, male and female, connected with the plot, might 
be formed from his family or some neighbouring one of 
rank. It is not indispensable that the guest should be 
a man of high station ; nor i^ thei political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, unless it 
call forth the exercise of generosity and faithfulness, 
grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To introduce state- 
affairs, would raise the style above comedy ; though 
a small spice of them would season the converse ol 
swains. Upon this head I cannot say more than to 
recommend the study of the character of Eumeeua in 

Prope hunc fontem pellucidum, 
Cum quodam juventutis amico superstile, 
Siepe conquiescam, senex, 
Conteutiis modicis, moeque lastus! 
Sin aliter — 
^vique paululum supersit, 
Vos silvulsE, et amici, 
Caetetaque amcena, 
Valele, diuque Isetamini I 

ENGLISHED. 
To improve both air and soil, 
I drain and decorate this plantation of willowf 
Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 
Here, far from noise and strife, 
I love to wander, 
Now fondly marking the progress of my treet 
Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. 
Here, if it pleases Almighty G^d, 
May I often rest in the evening of life, 

Near that transparrent fountain. 
With some surviving friend of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with ray lot. 
If vain these humble wishes. 
And life draw me near a close. 

Ye trees and friends. 
And whatever else is dear. 
Farewell ! and long may ye flourish. 



Above the door of the house, 

WRITTEN IN 1773. 

Mihi meisque utinam conting 

Prope Taichi marginem, 

Avitain Aeello, 

Bene Tivero fausteque mori t 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace 

And die in joyful hope ! 

These inscriptions, and the translatioM, ( 
handwriting ot Mr. Ramsay. 



LETTERS. 



n 



ibe Oiyatty, which, in Mr. Pope's translation, is an 
•xquisite and invaluable drawing from nature, that 
would Buil some of our country Kldrrs of the present 
day. 

There must be love in the plot, anii,a happy discove- 
ry ; and peace and pardon may be the reward of hos- 
pilalily, and honest attachment to misguided princi- 
ples. When you have once thought of a plot, and 
brought the story into form, Doctor Blacklock, or Mr. 
H. Mackenzie, may be useful in dividing it into acts 
and scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some 
attention to certain rules of the drama. These you 
CDuld afterwards fill up at your leisure. Bui, whilst 
1 presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me ad- 
vise you to study the spirt of my namesake's dialogue,* 
which is natural witliout being low ; and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country-people, in these 
situations, speak every day. You have only to bring 
down your strain a very little. A great plan, such as 
this, would concentre all your ideas, which facilitates 
the execution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissi- 
pation to a farm of very moderate size, sutlloif.nl to find 
exercise for mind and body, but not so great as to ab- 
sorb belter things. And if some intellectual pursuit 
he well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be more 
lucrative than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 



Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, 
permit me to go a step further. Let those bright tal- 
ents which the Almighty has bestowed on you, be 
henceforth employed to the noble purpose of support- 
ing the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so 
varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes : nor is it necessary to be always serious, 
which you have to good purpose ; good morals may be 
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great 
allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of 
youth ;— and few poets can boast like Thomson, of 
never having written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular I wish to keep clear of the 
thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a huiKlred 
enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when 
one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of 
individuals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; 
and there are certain curious questions, which may af- 
ford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom 
mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are 
beyond human ken, it is sufficient that all our sects 
concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me 
for these bints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady Clackmannan .'t 
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indistinctly. 
Her house is a specimen of the mansions of ourgentry 
of the last age, when hospitality and elevation of mind 
were conspicuous amid plain fare and plain furni- 
ture. I shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it 
were no more than to show that you take the effusions 
of an obscure man like me in good part. I beg ray best 
respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock. :t 
And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 

* Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. E. 

t Mrs. Bruce of Clackraannun. E. 

JTALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the crown of Scotland 
and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl 
of Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- 
tury,) and Donald Stev;art, Earl of Caithness, had 
the command of the royal army. They marched into 
Lochaber, with a view of attacking a body of the M'- 
Donalds, commanded by Donald Balloch, and posted 
upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country . 



No. XXXII. 

FROM MR, J. RAMSAY, TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre, Wd October, 1787, 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose poems, 1 
dare say, have given you much pleasure. Upon a per- 
sonal acquaintance, 1 doubt not, you will relish the 
man as much as his works, in which there is a rich 
vein of intellectual ore. He has heard some of our 
Highland Luinags or songs played, which delighted 

Having timely intelligence of their approach, the in- 
surgents got off precipitately to the opposite shore in 
their curraghs, or boats covered with skins. The 
King's troops encamped in full security ; but the M'- 
Donalds, returned about midnight, surprised them, 
killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or disper*. 
ed the whole army. 



The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and made for the more hilly part of th« 
country. In the course of his flight he came to tha 
house of a poor man, whose name was Onieron 
Cameron. The landlord welcomed his guost with the 
utmost kindness ; but, as there was no meat in the 
house, he told his wife he would directly kill Moal 
Adah," to f«>ed the stranger. " Kill our only cow 1" 
said she, "our own and our little children's principal 
support!" More attentive, however, to the present 
call lor hospitality than the remonstrances of his wife, 
or the future exigencies of his family, he killed tha 
cow. The best and tenderest parts were immediately 
roasted before the fire, and plenty of irmzVjcA, or High- 
land soup, prepared lo conclude their meal. Th« 
whole family, and tneir guest ate heartily, and the 
evening was spent, as usual, in telling tales and sing. 
Ing songs besides a cheerful fire. Bed-time came • 
Omeron brushed the hearth, spread the cow-hide upon 
it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The eari 
wrapped his plaid about him, and slept soundly on tb« 
hide, whilst the family betook themselves to rest ins 
corner of the same room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and ai 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had entertained? "You may probably," 
answered he, " be one of the king's officers ; but who- 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage af- 
forded you was most welcome. " Your guest, then," 
replied the other, " is the Earl of Mar ; and if hereaf- 
ter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come to the 
castle of Kildrummie." " My blessing be with you I 
noble stranger," said Omeron ; " If I am ever in di»- 
tress you shall soon see me. " 

The Royal army was soon after re-assembled, and 
the insurgents finding themselves unable to make head 
against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, go< 
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and for 
ced him to fly the country. He came with his wife anJ 
children to the gate of Kildrummie castle, and require4 
admittance with a confiaeuce which hardly correspond 

• Maol Odhar t. «. the brown hatttiaa acw , 



f4 



LETTERS. 



him so much that he has made words to one or two of 
them, which will render these more popular. As he 
has thought of being in your quarter, 1 am persuaded 
you will not think it labour lost to indulge the poet of 
oature with a sample of those sweet, artless melodies, 
which only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) 
to congenial words. I wish we could conjure up the 
ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a portion 
of his enthusiasm for those neglected airs, which do not 
suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. But 
if it be true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the Ho- 
mer of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their 
taste ; — this, however, is going out of my province. 
You can show Mr. Burns the manner of singing the 
BSime Luinags ; and, if he can humour it in words, I 
do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the 
stage, in the original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so seldom in 
this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest draw- 
backs that attends obscurity, that one has so few op- 
portunities of cultivating acquaintances at a distance 
I hope, however, some time or other to have the plea 
6ure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of 
hauling you away to i^aisley, &c. ; meanwhile 1 
beg to be remembered to Messrs. Bougahd Mylue 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on our 

friend, Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the 
frowns of his diocesan, 
I am. Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY 



No. XXXIII. 

FROM MR. RAMSAY 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ochtertyre, October 27, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

I receivgd yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many 
thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with 
a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you 
know what passed between ns on the subject of my 
hints, to which I have made additions in a letter I sent 
t'other day to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, that 
Colonel Edmondstoune told me t'other day, that his 
cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a 
great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Ro- 
bert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, 
having written the words of The Bush aboon Trnquair 
and Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was ad- 
dressed was Mary Stewart, of the Castlemilk family, 
ai'terwards wife of Mr. .lohn Relches. The Colonel 
never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his bu- 
rial fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, 

ed with his hatit and appearance. The porter told 
him rudely, his lordship was at dinner, and must not 
oe disturbed. He oecame noisy and importune : at 
last his name was announced. Upon hearing that it 
was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seat, 
and is said to have exclaimed in a kind of poetic stan- 
za, " I was a night in his house, and fared most plen- 
tifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron 
from Breugach is an excellent fellow." He was in- 
troduced into the great hall, and received with the 
welcome he deserved. Upon hearing how he had been 
treated, the Earl gave nira four merk land near the 
castle : and it is said i\\A\& is still a number of Came- 
oc» descended uf this Highland Eumaius. I 



and had lived long in France Lady Ankerrille ii Hs 
neice, and may know more of his poetical vein. Aa 
epitaph-monger like me might moralize upon the vani 
ty of life, and the vanity of those sweet efi'usions. Bat 
1 have hardly room to offer my best compliments to 
Mrs. Blacklock.audam, 
Dear Doctor, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIV 



FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 28?A October, 1787. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this placa 
to ; our neighbourhood, I embrace the opportunity of 
telinig you that I am yet alive, tolerably well, and al 
wa>s in expectation of being better. By the much- 
valued letters before me, I see that it was my duty to 
have given you this intelligence about three years and 
nine months ago : and have nothing to allese as an ex- 
cuse, but that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in Lon- 
don, are so much taken up with the various pursuits in 
which we are here engaged, that we seldom think of 
any person, creature, place, or thing that is absent. 
But this is not altoeether the ca=e wiih me ; for 1 often 
think of yoU; and Hornie and Russel, and an unfaih- 
omed depth, and lowan brunstane, all in the sam» 
minute, although you and they are (as 1 suppose) at a 
considerable distance. I flatter myself, however, with 
the pleasing thought, that you and I shall meet some 
time or other either in Scotland or England. If ever 
you come hither, you will have the satisfaction of see- 
ing your poems relished by the Caledonians in Lon- 
don, full as much as they can be by those of Edin- 
burgh. We frequently repeat some of your verses in 
our Caledonian society ; and you may believe, that I 
am not a iittle vain that I have had some share in cul- 
tivating such a genius. I was not absolutely certain 
that you were the author, till a few days ago, when I 
made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. M'Comb's eldest daugh- 
ter, who lives in town, and who told me that she was 
informed of it by a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, 
with whom you had been in company when in that 
capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention of visit 
ing this huge, overgrown metropolis ? It would afford 
matter for a large poem. Here you would have an op- 
portunity of indulging your vein in the study of man- 
kind, perhaps to a greater degree than in any city upon 
the face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as 
you know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre of 
their commerce. 



Present mv respectful compliments to Mrs. Burns, 
to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amia- 
ble children. May the Father of the universe blees 
you all with those principles and dispositions that the 
best of parents took such uncommon pains to instil 
into your minds from your earliest infancy ! May 
you live as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhap- 
py. I feel myself grow serious all at once, and afl'ect- 
ed in a manner I cannot describe. I shall oniyadd, 
that it is one of the greatest pleasures I promise myself 
before I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose 
memory I revere more than that of any person that 
ever I was acquainted with. 
I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCa, 



LETTERS. 



75 



No. XXXV. 

FROM MR. 

Gordon Castle, 3lst. Oct. 1787. 
SIR, 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well aa of 
your -OSS iu leaving this place so suddenly, 1 should 
cundenan you to starve upon cauld kaitforae towmont 
nt -east : and as for Dick Laline,' your travelling 
companion, without banning him wi' a' the curses 
contained in your letter (which he'll no value a baw- 
bee,) I should give him naught but Stra'bogie cas- 
tocks to chew torsaxouks, or ay until he wrs as sensi- 
ble of his error as you seem to be of yours. 



Your song T showed without producing the author ; 
and it was judged by the Dutchess to be the production 
of Dr. Bealtie. I sent a copy of it, by her Grace's de 
Biie,toaMrs. M'Pheisonin Badenoch, who sings Afo- 
rdg^ and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. J 
have recorded it hkewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is in 
company with a great many oilier poems and verses, 
some of the writers of which are no less eminent for 
their political than for their poetical abilities. When 
the Dutchess was informed that you were the author, 
bhe wished you had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to hand 
safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, it will 
likewise come free ; that is, as long as the Duke is in 
this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXVI. 

FROM THE REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, Uth November, 1787. 
SIR, 

Your kind return, without date, but of post mark 
October 25th, came to my hand only this day ; and, to 
testify my punctuality to my poetic engagement, 1 sit 
down imiTieJiately to answer it in kind. Your ac- 
knowledgment of my poor but just encomiums on your 
surprising genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The 
difference between our two tracks of education and 
ways of life is entirely in your favour, and gives you 
the preference every manner of way. I know a classi- 
cal education will not create a versifying taste, but it 
mightily improves and assists it ; and though, where 
both these meet, there may sometimes be ground for 
approbation, yet where taste appears single as it were, 
and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 1 
will always sustain the justice of its prior claim of ap- 

Elause. A small portion of taste, this way, 1 have 
ad almost from childhood, especially in the old Scot- 
tish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as 1 remember, 
my fondness for Christ-kirk o' the Green, which 1 had 
by heart, ere I was twelve years of age, and which, 
some years ago, I attsmpted to turn into Latin verse. 
While I was young I dabbled a good deal in these 
things ; but, on getting the black gown, 1 gave it pret- 
ty much over, till my daughters grew uji, who, being 
all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their 
favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which 
have made a public appearance beyond my expecta- 
tions, and contrary to my intentions, at the same time 
that 1 hope there is nothing to be found in them un- 
characteristic, or unbecoming the cloth which 1 would 
always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you purpose from me in the un- 
dertaking you are engaged in,t I am sorry 1 cannot 

• Mr. Nicol. 
1 A plan of publishing a complete collection of Scot- 
Uth Songs, &c. 



give it 80 far as I could wish, and you perhaps expect, 
My daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are 
all foris-familiate, and the old woman their mother 
has lost that taste. There are two from my own pen, 
which I might give you, if worth the while. One to 
the old Scotch tune of Dumbarton's Drum^. 

The oth ir perhaps you have met with, as your noble 
friend the Dutchess has, I am told, heard of it. It 
was squeezed out of me by a brother parson in her 
neighbourhood, to accommodate a new Highland reel for 
the Marquis's birth day, to the stanza of 

*' Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may have it 
from a brother of mine, Mr. James Skinner, writer in 
Edinburgh, who, 1 believe, can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing I have heard, said 
to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, and which 
hit my taste much : 

" There was a wee wifeikie, was coming frae the fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie which bred her meikle care, 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 

I wish, Sfc. !{C. 

I have heard of another new composition, by a young 
plougbman of my acquaintance, that I am vastly 
pleased with, to the tune of The Humours oj Gkn, 
which 1 fear won't do, as the music, I am told, is of 
Irish original. 1 have mentioned these, such as they 
are, to show my readiness to oblige you, and to con- 
tribute my mile, if 1 coultl, to the patriotic work you 
have in hand, and which I wish all success to. If on 
have only to notify your mind, and what you want of 
the above shall be sent you. 

Mean time, while you are thus publicly, I may say, 
employed, do not sheath your own proper and piercing 
weapon. From what I have seen of yours already, I 
am inclined to hope for much good. One lesson of vir- 
tue and morality delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than dozens would 
do from such as me, who shall be told it is our employ- 
ment, and be never more minded : whereas, from a 
pen like yours, as being one of the many, what comes 
will be admired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard will leave an impression, especially when eX' 
ample goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad. 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry. 
Maun ay be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all success, and, in 
my other character, allhappiness and heavenly direc- 
tion, 

I remain, with esteem. 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XXXVII. 

FROM MRS. ROSE. 

Kilravock Castle, 30r/t Nov. 1787. 

I hope Tou will do me the justice to believe, that ^ 
was no defect in gratitude for your punctual perform- 
ance of your parting promise, that has made me so 
long in acknowledeine it, but merely the difficulty 1 had 
in gelling the Highland songs you wished to have, ac- 
curaiely noted ; they are at last enclosed ; but how 
shall I convey aj' ng wiih them those z^aces they M- 



T0 



LETTERS. 



quirei) from the melodioas voice of one of the fair spir- 
iu of the Hili of Kildrummie I These I must leave to 
your imagination lo supply. It has powers sufficient 
to transport you to her side, to recall her accents, a;id 
to make them still vibrate in the ears of memory. 
To her I am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with ^^ thoughts that breathe, and 
tooris that burn." These, however, being in a.a un- 
known tongue to yon, you must again have recourse to 
thai same fertile imagination of yours to interpret 
them, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties 
of an adored mistress — Why did 1 say unknown .'' the 
language of love is a universal one, that seems to have 
escaped the confusion of iSabel, and to be understood 
by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many 
things, persons, and places, in your northern tour, 
because it leads me to hope you may be induced lo re- 
visit them again. That the old ca'sile of Kilravock, 
and its inhabitants, were amongst these, adds to my 
satisfaction. I am even vain enough to admit your 
very flattering application of the line of Addison's ; at 
any rale, allow me to believe, that " friendship will 
maintain the ground she has occupied in both our 
hearts,"' in spile of absence, and that when we do 
meet, it will be as acquaintance of a score years' 
standing ; and on this fooling consider me as interest- 
ed in the future course of your fame so splendidly 
commenced. Any communications of the progress of 
your muse will be received with great gratitude, and 
the fire of your genius will have power to warm even 
us, frozen sisters of the north. 



The fire sides of Kilravock and Kildrummie unite in 
cordial regards to you. When you incline to figure 
either in your idea, suppose some of us reading your 
poems, and some of us singing your songs, and my lit- 
tle Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be 
wrong. We remember Mr. Nicol with as much good 
will as we can do any body who hurried Mr. Burns 
from us. 

Farewell, Sir : I can only contribute the widow's 
mite, io the esteem and admiration excited by your 
merits and genius ; but this I give, as she did, with all 
my heart — being sincerely yours. 

EL. ROSE. 



No. XXXVIII. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY LORD, 

I know your Lordship will disapprove of my ideas 
in a request I am going to make to you, but I have 
weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my 
hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my 
scheme, if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to gel 
into the Excise ; I am told that your Lordship's in- 
terest will easily procure me the grant from the Com- 
missioners ; and your Lordship's patronage and good- 
ness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, 
wretchedness, and exile, embolden me lo ask that iu- 
terest. You have likewise put it in my power to save 
thel-tlle lie ol' home that sheltered an aged mother, 
two brothers, and three sisters, from destruction — 
There, my Lord, you have bound me over to the high- 
est gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease ; but I 
think he will probably weather out the remaining seven 
years of it ; and, after the assistance which I have giv- 
en, and will give him, to keep the family together, I 
think, by my guess, I shall have rather belter than two 
hundred pounds, and instead oj seeking what is almost 
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can cer- 
tainly live by, wiih so small a stock, I shall lodge this 
sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting 
only the calls of uucommon distress or necessitous old 



. These, My Lord, are my viewi ; ? have resolved 

from the maturest deliberation ; and now I am fixed, 
I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my resolve 
into execution. Your Lordship's patronage is the 
strength of my hopes ; nor have I yet applied to iny 
body else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the 
idea of applying lo any other of the Great who have 
honoured me with iheir countenance. I am ill with the 
impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as 
much at the thought of the cold promise, as the cold 
denial : but lo your Lordship I have not only the hon« 
our, the comfort, but the pleasure of being 
Your Lordship's much obliged. 

And deeply indebted humble servant. 



No. XXXIX. 

TO DALRYMPLE, ESa. 

OF ORANQEFIELD. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 suppose the devil is so elated with his success with 
you, that he is determined, by a coupdemain, to com- 
plete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a 
poet. I broke open your letter you sent me : hummed 
over the rhymes ; and as I saw they were extempore, 
said to myself, iliey were very well ; but when 1 saw 
at the bottom a name 1 shall ever value with grateful 
respect, "I gapil wide but naething spak." I was 
nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of af- 
fliction-bearing memory, when tbey sat down with 
him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a 
word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon 
as my wonder-scared imagination regained its con- 
sciousness, and resumed its functions, 1 cast about 
what this mania of yours might portend. My forebo- 
ding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility j and 
several events, great in their magnitude, and import- 
ant in their consequences, occurred to my fancy.— 
The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the 

cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G , 

and the protestant interest, or St. Peter's keys, to 



You want to know how I come on. I am just in 
Btatuquo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my^Laiin, 
in " auld use and wont." The noble Earl of Glen- 
cairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested him- 
self in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevo- 
lent Being whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the imm6rtalily of the soul than any 
that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can 
never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. or the rev- 
erend Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At 
best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one 
of them strongly linged'with bituminous particles and 
sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal aa 
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous 
throb of benevolence, shall look en with princely eye at 
" the war of elements, tlie wreck of matter, and the 
crush of worlds." 



No. XL. 

rO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

December, 1787. 
SIR, 

Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and 
worthy friend, has informed me how much you are 
pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and 
(what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a 
poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been j, at- 
rouized by those of your character in life, when I wu 



LETTERS. 



17 



Intn duced to their notice by ***** * friends to 
them, and honoured acquaintance to me ; but you are 
the first gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart have interested him (or me, un- 
•olicited and unknown. I am not master enough of 
the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay 
to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am 
convinced, from the light in which you kindly view 
me, that you will do me the justice to believe this let- 
ter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, 
fastening on those in upper life who honour him with 
u little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situa- 
tion of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may 
in some measure, palliate that prostitution of art and 
talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not 
think prodigality is, by no means, a necessary concom- 
itant of a poetic turn; hut I believe a careless, indo- 
lent inattention to economy, is almost inseparable.'' 3m 
it; then there must be, in the heart of every bavi of 
Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the 
way of those windfalls of fortune, which frequently 
light on hardy impudence and footlicking servility. It 
is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his, 
poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose cha- 
racter as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the 
polUesse of life— yet is as poor as 1 am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kind- 
er ; learning never elevated my ideas above the peas- 
ant's shade, and 1 haveau independent fortune at the 
plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended 
in the least to the /reanners of the gentleman, should be 
so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals 
of such a one as I am ; and so inhumanly cruel, too, 
as to meddle with that late most unfortunate part of 
my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, 
Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in be- 
half of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequen- 
)y the sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but rever- 
ence to Uod, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I 
hope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, Sir, to 
make you for your goodness, but one--a return which, 
1 am persuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, 
and every one of that lovely flock who stand to you 
in a filial relation. If ever Calumny aim tlie poisoned 
shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the 
blow 1 



No. XLI 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 21sZ January. 1788. 
After six weeks confinement, I am beginning to 
walk across the room. Tliey have been six horrible 
weeks, anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, 
write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign 
life as an ofiicer resigns a commission ; for which I 
would not «afcei« any poor, ignorant wretch, by Sftfing^ 
Out. Lately I was a sixpenny private , and, God 
knows, a miserable soldier enough: now I march to 



knows, a miserable soldi 
the campaign. 



,... now I march to 

r— =-7 a- starving cadet; a little more con- 
spicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want 
bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some 
other soldiers, to have as much fortitudeor cunning as 
tu dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I 
suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edin- 
burgh, and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at 
Dumop-House. 



No. XLII. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edwburgh, V2th February, 1788. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not that 
you say them, but that you mistake me. Religion, 
my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my 
chiefdependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I liava 
indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies : 
but, alas ; I have ever been " more fool than kuave." 
A mathematician without religion is a probable cha- 
racter ; and an irreligious poet is a monster. 



XLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 17?8. 
MADAM, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February 
affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where 
you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner with 
any little wit I have, I do confess : but I have taxed my 
recollection to no purpose to find out when it was em- 
ployed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least, as Mil- 
ton describes him ; and though I may be rascally 
enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot en- 
dure it in others. You, my l.onoured friend, who can- 
not appear in any light but you are sure of being re- 
spectable—you can afibrd to pass by an occasion to 
display your wit, because you my depend for fame ou 
your sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know 
you can rely on the gratitude of many and tlie esteem 
of all; but, God help us who are wits or witlings by 
profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink un- 
supported 1 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell mo of 
Coila.' 1 may say to the fair painter who does me so 
much honour, as Dr. Bealtie says to Ross fhe poet of 
his muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took the idea 
of Coila: ('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dia- 
lect, which perhaps you have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, buto' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and flegs, 

Borabaz'd anddizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie 1" 



XLIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, 31 s« March, 1789. 
Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a 
track of melancholy, joyless muirs, between Galloway 
and Ayrshiie, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts 
to psaims, and hymns, and Kpiritual songs ; and your 
favouiite air Captain Okean, coming at length in my 
head, I tried these wordstnit. You will see that the 
first part of the tune must be repeated. t 

*A lady (daughter of Mrs. Dunlop) was making 
picture from the description of Coila in the \ision. 
E. 

t Here fhe Bard gives the first stanza of the ' ' Cheva- 
lier's Lament." 



78 



LETTERS. 



1 am tolerably pleased with these verses : but, as I 
ha»e only a sketch of the tune ! leave it witii you to try 
if they suit the measure of the music. 

I am BO harrassed with care and anxiety about this 
farming project of mine, ihat my muse has degenera- 
ted into the veriest prose-wench that ever picked cin- 
ders or followed a tinker. When i am fairly got into 
the routine of business, 1 shall trouble you with a lon- 
ger epislle ; perhaps with some queries' respecting far- 
ming ; at present the world sits such a load on my 
mind, that, it has effaced almost every trace of the 
in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. 
Cieghurn. 



FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN, 

Saughton Mills, itth April, 1733. 
MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 3lst 
"It., and considering myself greatly obliged to you for 
your attention in sending me the song,* to my favour- 
ite air, Captain Okean. The words delight me much, 
ihey fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me 
a verse or two more : and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should 
be sung after the fatal field of Culloden by the unfor- 
tunate Charles. Tendccci personates the lovely Mary 
Stuart in the song, Queen Mary^s Lamentation. Why 
miy not I sing in the person of her great-great-great- 
gi-andsou.t 

Any skill I have in country business you may tru- 
ly command. Situation, soil, customs of countries, 
may vary from each other, but Farmer Attention is 
a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear from 
you soon. Mrs, Cleghorn joins rae in best compli- 
ments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, 
yo ir very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, ^th. April, 1788. 
MADAM, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, 
as I assure you they made my heart ache with peniten- 
tial pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I 
commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily 
guess I must be pretty busy ! but that is not all. As I 
got the offer of the excise-business without solicita- 
lio ; as it costs me only six mouths' attendance for 
instructions to entitle me to a commission, which com- 
mission lies by me, and at any future period, on my 
simple petition, can be resumed: I thought five and- 
thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a 
poor pnet, if fortune, in her jade tricks, should kick 
him down from the little eminence to which she has 
iKtely helped him. 

For this reason, 1 am at present attending these in- 
structions, to have them completed before Wbitsun- 
day. Still, Madam, I prepared, with the sincerest 
pleasure, to meet you at the Mount, and came to my 
brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; 
Uu* for some nights proceeding, 1 had slept in an 
partment where the force of the winds and rains was 

* The Chevalier's Lament. 

t Our Poet took this advice. The whole of this beau- 
tiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is inserted in 
thePcema. 



only mitigated by being sifted through D3mberle« 
apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In conaequenc* 
I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, una, 
ble to stir out of bed, with all tlie miserable effecU of 
a violent cold. 

You see Madam, the truth of the French maxim, 
Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisemblable. Your 
last was so full of expostulation, and was somethinggo 
like the languageof an offended friend, that I bi-gan to 
tremble for a correspondence which 1 had with grateful 
pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments ol 
ray future life. 



Your books have delighted me: Virgil, Dryden 
and T'asso, were all equally strangers tome: but of 
this more at large in my next. 



No. XLVII. 

FROM THE REV. J'OHN SKINNER. 

Linaheart, 282A April, 1788. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 received your last with the curious present yoh 
have favoured me with, and would have made prope* 
acknowledgments before now, but that I have been ue. 
cessarily engaged in matters of a different complexion. 
And now, that I have got a little respite, I make use ol 
it to thank you for this valuable instance of your good- 
will, and to assure you that, with the sincere heart oi 
true Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the 
giver ; as a small testimony of which 1 have herewith 
sent you for your amusement (and in a form which I 
hope you will excuse for saving postage) the two songs 
I wrote about to you already. Charviing Nancy is the 
real production of genius in a ploughman of twenty 
years of age at the time of its appearing, with no more 
education than what he picked up at an old farmer- 
grandfather's fire side, though now by the strength ol 
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach-field in 
the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in 
it a simplicity and delicacy, with some turns of hu- 
mour, that will please one of your taste ; at least it 
pleased me when I first saw it, if that can beany re- 
commendation to it. The other is entirely descrip- 
tive of my own sentiments : and you may make use ol 
one or both as you shall see good.* 

* CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy. 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

in venting my passion I'll strive to be plain ; 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 



Her beauty delights me, her kindness invite? me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain, 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain. 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in statur* 

My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain I 

Like Phcehus adorning the fair ruddy morning, 
Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are seren*) 



LETTERS. 



79 



Yonwili oblige me by presenting my respects to your 
host, Mr. Cruickshank, who has given such high appro- 
bation to my poor Latinity; you may let him know, that 
as 1 have likewise been a babbler in Latin poetry, I 
have two things tliat 1 would, if he desires it, submit, 
not toj his judgment, but to liis amusement ; the one, a 
iranslation ot Christ's Kirk o' the Gree?i, printed at 
Aberdeen some years ago ; the other Batrachomyom- 
achia Homeri latinis veslita cum additameittis, given 
in lately to Chalmers, to print it he pleases. Mr. C. 
will kuow Sera non semper ddectant, ncn joca sem- 
per. Semper delectant seria maxtajocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and good 
wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. LXVIII. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

MoMchline, U May, 1788. 
SIR, 

1 enclose to you one or two of my bagatelles. If the 
fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence 

Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. 
My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain ? 

The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 
Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen ; 

She's well shap'd and slender, true-hearted and ten- 
der. 
My charming sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain 1 

I'll seek thro' the nation for some habitftloji. 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain, 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her ay cheery. 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling. 

With ev'ry tiling needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou Shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thes, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I '11 make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting. 

My charming s»;eet Nancy, gin too wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy. 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
1 will not compel her, bui plainly I'll tell her. 

Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 



Tune- 



Dumbarton Drums. 



O I why should old age so much wound us ? O , 
There is nothing in't all to confound us,0. 

For how happy now am I, 

With Tiy old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, 0, 
We made use of what we had. 
And onr thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat andtheclaethiug, 0. 

We have liv'd all our-life-time contented, O, 
eUicethe d«y we became first acquainted, O, 



with the great unknown Being, who frames thg chaia 
of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will 
attend your visit to llie Continent, and return you 
sale to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim as it is my 
privilege to acquaint you with my progress in my trade 
of rhymes ; as I am sure I could say it with truth, 
that the next lo my little frame, and the having it in 
my power to make life a liitle more comfortable to 
those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever 
regard your countenance, your patronage, your friend- 
ly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my 
late success in life. 



No. XLIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, ith M-jy, 1788. 
MADAM, 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. Ido not know 
whether the critics will agree with me, but the Qeor- 

It's true we've been but poor, 
And we are so to this hour. 
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss. 
And what further could we wiss. 
To be pleas'dwi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, 0, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jennies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far. 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow sleenles, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Of changes that almost are veariy, v>. 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both ill country and in town. 
Who now live butscrimply and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O, 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O, 

Indeed we've been in want, 

And our living been but scant. 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, 

In this house we first came together, O, 

Where we've loiig been a Father and a Mither, O, 

And, tho' nut ofstone and lime. 

It will last us a' our time. 
And, I hope, we shall never needanither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand I wiss. 

To a better houee than this. 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound u« ? O, 
There's nothing in't all to confound us, O, 

Fur how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our Dairns and our oys all around iw, O. 



80 



LETTERS. 



giet are to me by far the best of Virpl. It is, indeed, 
a«pecies of writing entirely new to ine, and lias filled 
my bead with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but 
alaj I when I read the Georgics and then survey my 
powers, 'tis like the idea of a Slietland pony, drawn 
up by the side of a thoroughbred hunter, to start lor 
the plate. I own 1 am disappointed in the JEnitd. 
Faultless correctness may please, and does highly 
please the lettered critic : but to that awful character 1 
have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
■whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic 
of any kind, when I say, that I think Virgil, in many 
instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the 
Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages 
where Virgd has evidently copied, but by no means 
improved Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing 
of this owing to the translators ; for, from every thin" 
I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and flu° 
ency of language, Pope's master. I have not perused 
Tasso enough to form an opinion j in some future let- 
ter you shall have ray ideas of him ; though 1 am con- 
scious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and im- 
perfect as there I have ever felt and lamented my want 
ot learning most. 



No. L. 



TO THE Same, 



MADAM. ^tkMay,l,,S. 

1 have been torturing my philosophy to no porpose 
to account for that kind partiality of yours, which, un- 
*','**, * fTr * ^^" followed me in my return to the 
shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did 
1 regret, in the fleeting hours of my Will-o'- Wisp ap- 
pearance, that " here I had no continuing city ;" and, 
but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary acquaint- 
ance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of 
conceit with the sworn companioua of my ruad through 
life, iusignificanee and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the unequal 
distribution of the good things of this life, iliatgive me 
more vexation (I mean in what I see around me,) 
than the importance the opulent bestow on their tri- 
fling family affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last af- 
ternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at 
a good woman's fire-side, where the planks that com- 
posed the fli>or were decorated with a splendid carpet, 
and the gay tables sparkled with silver and china. 
'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolu- 
tion among those creatures, who, though in appear- 
ance partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the 
same nature with Madame, are from time to time, 
their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wis- 
dom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and years, * • 

* * not only to the necessities) the conveniences, 
but the caprices of the important few.* We talked of 
the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their 
general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But light be the 
turf upon his breast who taught — " Reverence thy- 
self." We looked down on the unpohshed wretches, 
lUeir impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny 
inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness o! his ram- 
bles, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride. 

* Sarvants in Scotland, are hired from term to 
ttrm ; i. e. from Whitsuaday to Martinmas, &c. I 



No. LI. 

TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, 13/A Junt, 1166 

•' WTiere'er I roam, whatever realms I see. 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee, 
Still to my friend returns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 
Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I 
have been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an ol4 
smoky Spence ; far from every object I love, or by 
whom J am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older thao 
yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride 
on ; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult 
my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
1 here is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the 
hour of care; consequently, the dreary objects seera 
larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated 
and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of mis- 
fortunes and disappointments, at that period of my 
existence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas 
for the voyage of life, is, 1 believe, the principal caus» 
of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am indeed a bus- 
baud. 



I found a once much-loved and sti!! much-loved fe- 
male, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of th« 
naked elements ; but 1 enabled her to purchase a sbel- 
ter; and there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's 
happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of dispo- 
sition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its 
powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly 
cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure; these, I think in a 
woman, may make a good wile, though she should 
never have read a page but the Scriptitres of the Old 
and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter 
assembly than a p«nny-pay wedding. 



No. LIL 

TO MR. P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

I shall say nothing at all to your mad prese'.t— yoo 
have long and often been of important service to me, 
and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obliga- 
tions until 1 shall not be able to lift up my face before 
you. In the mean time, as Sir Roger de Coverly, be- 
cause it happened to be a cold day in which he'made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourning, 
so, because 1 have been this week plagued with an in- 
digestion, I have sent you by '.ne carrier a fine old 
ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. 
It besets a man in every one of his senses i lose my 
appetite at the sight of successful kr.avery, and sicken 
to loathing at the noise and r.oiisense of self important 
folly. When the hollow-nearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feehiig spoils my dinner ; the proud 
man's wine so offends my palate that it chokes me m 



LETTERS. 



the ga.let ; and the puleilised, feathered, pert cox- 
eomb, is so disgustful m my nostril, that my stomach 
t'lras. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable se 
tions, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of 
my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your 
good tilings among your friends, and some of them are 
in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our 
friend, Smellie ; a man positively of the'first abilities 
and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the 
best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with ; when you see him, as alas ! he too is smarting 
at the pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of my 
cheese alone will not cure him ; but if you add a tan- 
kard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right 
Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the morn- 
ing mist before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only broth- 
er, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fel- 
lows that ever any man called by the name of friend, 
ii' a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of 
Bome of his superabundant modesty, you would do 
Well to give it him. 

David,* with his Courant, comes too, across my 
recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from 
the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those 
— bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally 
larding the lean characters of certain great men in a 
c-ertain great town, I grant you the periods are very 
well turned ; so, a fresh egg is a very good thing, but 
when thrown at a man in a pillory it does not at all 
improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
of the egg. 

*■ My facetions friend, D r, I would wish also to 

be a partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he 
laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last 
field day of the Crochallan corps.f 

Among our common friends, I must not forget one 
of the dearest of tliem, Cunningham. The brutality, 
ijisolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of ha- 
ving such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his 
stomach ; and if you can help him to any thing that 
will make him a little easier on that score, it will be 
very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a content- 
ed happy man, that 1 know not what can annoy him, 
except perhaps he may not have got the bet ter of a par- 
cel of modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him 
one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in 
town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I 
shall have nothing to do with them professedly. The 
faculty are beyond my prescription. As to their clients, 
that is another thing ; God knows they have much to 
digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, 
and their liberality of sentiment ; their total want of 
jiride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so pro- 
verbially notorious as to place them far, far above 
either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I 
have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdar- 
roch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the King's- 
arms inn here, to have, at the next county-meeting, a 
large ewe-milk cheese on the table, fur the benefit of 
the Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest the 
Duke of (iueensberry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a private 
hand to Kdinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest 
double postage. 



No. LIII. 



* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
t A club of choice ipiritc. 



TOMRS. DUNLOP 

Mauchline, 2d August, 1788. 
HONOURED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayr- 
shire. I am indeed seriously angrv with you at the 
quantum luck-penny : but, vexed and hurt as I was, I 
could not help laughing very heartily at the noble 
Lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale and give you my 
direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of 
calling at a post-office once in a lortnight. I am six 
miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, 
and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neigh- 
bourhood. Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, 
building a dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost 
an evangelical man in Nithsdale, fori have sca.ce 
" where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that brought 
tears in my eyes. " The heart knoweth its own sor- 
rows, aod a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." 
The repository of these " sorrows of the heart," is a 
kind of sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a choseu 
friend, and that too at particular sacred times, who 
dares enter into them. 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake oftha 
author. Instead of entering on this subject farther, I 
shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermit- 
age belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neigh- 
bourhood. They are almost the only favours the 
muses have conferred on me in that country.* 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following 
were the production of yesterday, as 1 jogged through 
the wild hills of New-Cumnock. I intend inserting 
them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going 
to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my ex- 
cise-hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the 
worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only 
of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. 
The following are just the first crude thoughts " un 
houseled, unanointed, unaunealed." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train: 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 

The world were bless'd, did bliss on them depend ; 

Ah I that " the friendly e'er should want a friend I" 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 

Who feel by reason, and who give by rule ; 

(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 

Who make poor will do wait upon I should 

We own they're prudent, but who owns ihey'r good i 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye 1 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy 1 
But come— ^ 

Here the muse left me, I am astonished at what you 
tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never receiveil it. 
Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is 
unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this 
date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell I 



The lines transcribed were those written io Frl. 
ars Carse Hermitage. 

L 2 



LETTERS. 



No. LIV. 

• TO THE SAME, 

Mauchline, \Qih August. .788. 
iAY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. 1 found it, as 
well as another valued friend — my wife, waiting to 
Welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sin- 
cerest pleasure. 



When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to an- 
swer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sen- 
timent, like the feithful Commons of Great Britain in 
Parliament assembled, answering a speech from the 
best of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my 
heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some 
of your kind inquiries ; but not, from your very odd 
reason, that I do not read your letters. All your 
epistles for several months have cost me nothing, ex- 
cept a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep felt senti- 
ment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself " as wish to be 

who love their lords," as 1 loved her nearly to distrac- 
tion, we took steps for a private marriage. Her pa- 
rents got the hint : and not only forbade me her com- 
pany and the house, but, on my rumoured West-In- 
dian voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail till I 
should find security in my about-tobe paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my 
eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very wel- 
come to visit my girl. The usual consequences began 
to betray her ; and as 1 was at that time laid up a 
cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned 
out of doors : and I wrote to a friend to shelter her 
till ray return, when oui marriage was declared. Her 
happiness or misery were in my hands ; and who could 
trifle with such a deposite ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for 
my journey of life, but, upon my honour, I have never 
seen the individual instance. 



Circumstanced as 1 am, I could never have got a fe- 
male partner for life, who could have entered into my 
favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. 
without probably entailing on me, at the same lime, 
expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish af- 
fectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school 
acquirements, which (pardonnez moi, Madame,) are 
sometimes, to be found among females of the upper 
ranks, but almost universally "pervade the misses of 
the would-be-gentry. 



I like your way in your church-yard lucubrations. 
Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental 
situations, either respecting health, place, or compa- 
ny, have often a strength and always an originality, 
ttiat would in vain be looked for in fancied circum- 
stances and studied paragraphs. For nie, 1 have often 
thought of keeping a letter in progression, by me, to 
•end you when the sheet was written out. Now I 
talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to 
you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing 
to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial 
narrow-minded scale that 1 cannot abide it ; and dou- 
ble letters, at least in my miscellaneous rt-verie man- 
Eer, are a monstrous tax in a close cnrresponHencu. 



No. LV. 

TO THE SAME. 

EUisland, I6lh, August, 17». 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, ta 
send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only geniiu l« 
make it quite Sheustouian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wint'ry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country-* 
gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — coiv 
scisusness of my own inability for the struggle of lbs 
world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife 
and children ; — 1 could indulge these reflections, till 
my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, 
that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat 
down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul, I 
always find that the most sovereign balm for my 
wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner for the 

first time. My reception was quite to my mind : 
from the lady of the house, quite flattering. She some- 
limes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She re- 
peated one or two to the admiration of all present. My 
suffrage as a professional man, was expected : I for 
once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. 
Pardon me, ye, my'adored household gods — Independ- 
ence of Spirit, and integrity of Soul! In the course 
of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a col- 
lection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. 
We got a song ou the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired ; the lady of the house 
asked me whose were the words ; " Mine, Madam— 
they are indeed my very best verses :" she took not 
the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb 
says well, " king's caff"is belter than itherfolk's corn." 
I was going to make a New Testament quotation 
about " casting pearls ;" but that would be too viru- 
lent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side of the 
question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do 
not speak of the selected few favoured by partial hea- 
ven ; whose souls are turned to gladness, amid riches 
and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak ol 
the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, 
whose days, are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, 1 would transcribe 
for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called 2%# 
Life and Age of Man ; beginning thus ; 

'" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings lestifie." 

1 had an old grand-uncle, with whom my molhei 
lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good old man, 
lor such he was, was long blind ere he died, during 
which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and 
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song 
of Thi Life and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melancholy 
truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, 

* See Poems, p. 103. 



LETTERS. 



83 



Cilaerable children of men — if it is a mere phantom, ex- 
Utiogonly' tiie heated imagination of enliiusiasra, 

" '"^nat truth on earth so precious as the lie?" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little scep- 
tical, but the necessities of my heart always give the 
cold pliilosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart 
weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the 
correspondence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissi- 
tudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these 
iii the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? 
No : to find them in their precious importance and di- 
vine efficacy, we must search among the obscure re- 
cesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and dis- 
tress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than 
pleased with the length of my letters, I return to 
Ayrshire middle of next week ; and it quickens my 
pace to think that there will be a letter from yuu 
waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for 
my harvest. 



No. LVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESa. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, 

When I had the honour of beinsintrof'.uced to you at 
Athole-house, 1 did not think so soon of as^ine a favour 
of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent why 
he wishes to be in his service, he answers, "Because 
you have that in your face which I could like to call 
master." For some such reason, Sir, do I nowsolicit 
your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an appli- 
cation f lately made to your Board to be admitted an 
officer of excise. I have, according to form, been ex- 
amined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certifi- 
cate, with a request for an order for instructions. In 
thisaffair, if I succeed, I am afraid t shall but too much 
need a patronising friend. Propriety of conduct as a 
man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, 1 dare en- 
gage for : but with any thing like business, except 
manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late appearance on 
the stage of life in the character of a country farmer ; 
but, after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, 
I find I could only" fight for existence in that miserable 
manner, which I have lived to see throw a venerable 
parent into the jaws of a jail : whence death, the 
poor man's last and often best friend, rescued him. 

T know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a 
claim on it ; may I therefore beg your patronage to 
forward me in this affair, till I be appointed to a divi- 
•ion, where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to 
♦upport that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which has been too often so distant from my situation.* 



No. LYII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, Ut October, 1788. 
J have been here in this country about three days, 
>^ all that time my chief readirig has been the " Ad- 
V.-«ss to Loch-Lomond," you were so obliging as to 
fcmdtome. Were ! empannelled one of the author's 
Jwwy to determine his criminality respecting the sin of 
po«<y, my verdict should be " guilty 1 A poet of Na. 

•Here followed the poetical part of the Epistle, 
gtves Lii the Poems. 



ture's making." It is an excellent method for im 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, to 
place some favourite classic author, in his own walk 
of study and composition, before him as a model. 
Though your author )iad not mentioned the name I 
could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be 
Thomson. Will my brother-poet forgive me, if I ven- 
ture to hint, that liis imitation of that immortal bard 
is, in two or three places, rather more servile than 
such a genius as his required— e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

Address. 
To sooth the throbbing passions into peace. 

Thomson. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, 'harmony, and 
elegance of versification, fully equal to the S.ensons. 
Like Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for him- 
self ; you meet with no copied description. One par- 
ticular criticism 1 made at first reading ; in no one in- 
stance has he said too much. He never flags in hia 
progress, but, like a true poet of Nature's making, 
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and 
modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion ; 
only, I do not altogether like— 

" Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that Is nobly 
great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose- 
criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page6. " Great 
Lake," too much vulgarized by every-day language, 
for so sublime a poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a com- 
parison with other lakes is at once harmonious and 
poetic. Every reader's ideas must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The persjipctive that follows mountains blue— the 
imprisoned billows beating in vain — the wooded isles — 
the digression on the yew tree — "Ben-Lomond's lofty 
cloud envelop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thun- 
der-storm IS a subject which has been often tried ; yet 
our poet fn his grand picture, has interjected a circum- 
stance, so far as I know, entirely original ; 

" The gloom 
Deep-seamed with frequent streaks of movmg f re." 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens, how dark 
between I" is noble highland landscape ! The '' rain 
ploughing the red mould, too, is beautifully fancied. 
Ben-Lomond's "lofty pathless tup," is a good ex- 
pression ; and the •urrounding view frcm it is truly 
great ; the 

•' Silver mist 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described : and here he has contrived to enliven 
his poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I 
think, to usurp the modern muses altogether. I know 
not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole ; 
but the swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial listening 
ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the 
fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond's 
" hospitable flood ;" their wheeling round, their light- 
ing, mixing, diving, &c. ; and the glorious description 
of the sportsman. This last is equal to any thing in 
the Seasons. The idea of " the floating tribes distaLt 
seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as 
he is obliged to leave them, is a nobl ray of poetic 



84 



LETTERS. 



geniut. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar" 
of" the wbite cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that, while I am thus holding forth, with 
the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps ti- 
ring you with nonsense. 1 must, however, mention, 
that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of tlie 
most elegant compliments I have ever seen. 1 must 
likewise notice tliat beautiful paragraph, beginning, 
"The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, but they 
are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. 
I had no idea of it when I began — 1 should like to know 
■who the author is ; but, whoever he be, please pre- 
sent him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment 
he has afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for him 
two books. Letters on the Religion essential to Man, a 
book you sent me before ; and. The World Unmasked, 
or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send me them 
by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is 
truly elegant. 1 only wish it had been in two vol- 
umes. 



No. LVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS, 

Mauchline, \Zth November, 1788. 
MADAM, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop 
yesterday. Men are said to flatter women because 
they are weak ; if it is so, poets must be weaker still ; 
for Misses R. and K., and Miss G. M'K., with their 
flattering attentions and artful compliments, absolute- 
ly turned my head. I own they did not lard me over 
as many a poet does his patron « « « • 5i,( Uiey 
BO intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and deli- 
cate inuendoes of compliments thai if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection, how much additional weight 
and lustre your good opinion and friendship must give 
me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself 
as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say 
one word how m ich I was charmed with the Major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute remark, 
lest 1 should be thought to balance my orientalisms of 
applause over against the finest queyt in Ayrshire, 
which he made me a present of to help and adorn my 
stock. As it was on Hallowday, 1 am determi.^ed an- 
nually, as that day returns, to decorate her horns 
*riiii an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I ■n\\\ 
take the first conveyance to dedicate a day, or perhaps 
two, to you and friendship, under the guarantee of the 
Major's hospitality. There will be soon threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and 
now that your friendship and friendly correspondence 
is entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoyment of 
life, 1 must indulge myself in a happy day of " The 
feast of reason and the flow of soul." 



No. LIX. 

TO • • • • 

November 8, 1788. 
SIR, 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which 
some of our philosophers and gloomy sectaries have 

* The poem, entitled. An Address to Loch-Lomond, 
\t said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the 
Masters of the High-school at Kdinbuigh ; and the 
■ame who translated the beautiful story of the Paria, 
u publishtd in the Bee of Dr. Anderson. E. 
♦ Heifer. 



branded our nature — the principle of universal selfisb. 
ness, the proneness to all evil, ihey havegiven us ; stil/ 
the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed, 
or insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
shows iliat they are not motives of the human heart. 
Even the unhappy partner of our kind, who is undone 
by the bitter consequence of ms follies or his crimes ; — 
who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined 
Ijrotligate brother? we forgot the injuries, and feel for 
the man. 

I went, last Wednesday to ray parish-church, most 
cordially to join in grateful acknowledgements to the 
Author of all Good, for the consequent blessings of 
the glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event we 
owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious, to it 
we are likewise indebted for our present Royal Fami- 
ly, the ruling features of whose administration have ev- 
er been mU(Liess to the subject, and teuderaess of his 
rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, the 
principles of reason and common sense, it could not 
be any silly pclitical prejudice which made my heact 
revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the rev. 
erend gentleman mentioned the House of Stewart, and 
which, 1 am afraid, was too much the language of the 
day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance 
from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of 
those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much aa 
their crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we 
may bless God for all his goodness to us as a nation, 
without, at the same time, cursing a few ruined, 
powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas, and made 
attempts, that most of us would have done had we been 
in their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical house of Stewart, "may 
be said with propriety and justice when compared 
with the present Royal Family, and the sentiments of 
our days; but is there no allowance to be made for 
the -■nanners of the time? Were the royal contempo- 
raries of the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' 
rights? Might not the epithets of " bloody and ty- 
rannical." be with at least equal justice applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their prede- 
cesfors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be this :— 
At that period, the science of government, the knowl- 
edge of the true relation between king and subject, 
was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just iu 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and 
barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives which 
they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they 
saw their contemporaries enjoying ; but these pre- 
rogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation 
and the rights of subjects. 

In this cjntest between prince and people, the con- 
sequence oi that light of science which had lately dawn- 
ed over Europe, the monarch of France, for example, 
was victorious over the struggling liberties of his peo- 
ple ; with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his un- 
warrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the jostling of parlies, I 
cannot pretend to determine ; but likewise, happily for 
us, the kingly power was shifted into another branch 
of the family, who, as they owed -the throne solely to 
the call Ola free people, could claimniothing incon- 
sistent with the covenanted terms which placed them 
there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and laughed at 
for their folly and impracticability of their attempts ia 
171.3 and 1745. That they failed, I bless God; but 
cannot join in the ridicule' against them. Who does 
nut know that the abiUties or defects of leaders and 
commanders are often hidden, until put to the toucn- 
stoue ot exigency ; and that there i? a caprice of for- 
tune, an omiiipolence in particular accidents and con- 
junctures of circumstances which exalt us asheroet, 



LETTERS. 



85 



Br brand us as madmen, just as they are for or against 
us? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsist- 
ent being ; who would believe, Sir, that in this, our 
Augustan age of liberality and refinement, while we 
seem 60 justly sensible and jealous of our rigliio and 
liberties, and animated with such indignation against 
the very memory of those who would have subverted 
them — that a certain people imder our national protec- 
tion, should complain, not against our monarch and a 
few favourite advisers, but aga'msl oar whole legisla- 
tive body, for similar oppression, and almost in the 
very, same terms, as our forefathers did of the House of 
Stewart I I will not, I cannot enter into the merits of 
the cause, but I dare say, the Anierican Congress, in 
1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened 
fis the English Convention was in 1688 : and that their 
posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliver- 
ance from us, as duly and sincerely as we do oura 
from the oppressive measures of the wrong-headed 
House of Siewaft. 

To conclude. Sir : let every man who has a tear for 
the many miseries incident to humanity, feel for a 
family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate 
beyond historic precedent ; and let every Briton, (and 
particularly every Scotsman,) who ever looked with 
reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil 
over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his fore-fa- 
thers.* 



No. LX. 

• TO MRS. DONLOP. 

Ellisland, llth Dec. 1788. 
MY DEAR, HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edint>iirgh, which 1 have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind, and wholly 
deaf," are melancholy news of human nature ; but 
when told of a much-loved and honoured friend, they 
carry misery in the souod. Goodness on your part, 
and gratitude on mine, began a tie, which has gradually 
and strongly entwisted itself among the dearest cords 
of my bosom ; and I tremble at the omens of your late 
and present ailing habits and shattered health. You 
miscalculate matters widely, when you forbid my 
waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly con- 
cerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately seen at 
Moreham Mains. But be that as it may, the heart of 
the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the two grand 
considerations for which 1 live : if miry ridges and 
dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, I had belter been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then 1 should not have 
been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of 
clods, and picking up grubs : not to mention barn- 
door cocks or mallards, creatures with which I could 
almost exchange lives at any time— If you continue so 
deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if 1 hear you are got so well again as 
to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Mad- 
am, for 1 will make my threatenings goi«i. 1 am to be 
at the new-year day fair of Ayr, and oy ail that is 
sacred in the word Friend 1 1 will come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your 
old school-fellow and friend, was truly interesting. 
Out upon the ways of the world ! — They spoil these 
" social offsprings of the heart." Two veterans of 
the " men of tlie world" would have met with little 
more heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on 
the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, " Auld 
.dng syne," exceedingly expressive ? There is an old 

* This letter was sent to the publisher of some news- 
paper, probably the publisher of the Edinburgh Eve- 
ning Cowant, 



song and tune which has often thrilled through my 
soul. You know 1 am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
songs : 1 shall give you the verses on the other sheet, 
as 1 suppose Mr. Kerr will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired 
poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There il 
more of the fire of native genius in il than half a dozen 
of modern English Bacchanalians. Now I am oti my 
hobby-horse, 1 cannot help inserting two other stan- 
zas which please me mightily. f 



No. LXI. 



TOMISSDAVIES. 

A young lady who had beard he had been making a 
Ballad on her, enclosing that Ballad. 

December, 1788. 
MADAM, 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Rid- 
dle, has informed you that I have made you the sub. 
ject of some verses. There is something so provoking 
in the idea of being the burden of a ballad, that 1 do noi 
think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience 
and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what that ballad was : so my worthy friend has 
done me a mischief, which, 1 dare say, he never in- 
tended ; and i-educed me to the unfortunate alterna- 
tive of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- 
gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- 
tion of a random moment, and never meant to have 
met yoin- ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a, 
gentleman, who had some genius, much eccentricity, 
and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character in a 
more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he 
used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, as he said, as 
a nota bene to point out the agreeable recollection to 
his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to 
him, is my muse to me : and the verses I do myself 
the honour to send you are a memento exactly of th 
same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 'of m; 
caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, but I am so of 
ten tired, disgusted, and hurt, with the insipidity, af 
fectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet Witt 
a person " after my own heart," 1 positively fee 
what an orthodox protestant would call a species of 
idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; 
and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than 
an Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming 
air. A distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit mj fancy were gray-beard- 
ed age : but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and senti- 
ment, are equally striking and unaffected, by heavens I 
though 1 had Uved threescore years a married man, 
and threescore years before I was a married man, my 
imagination would hallow the very idea ; and I am 
truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such 
poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXII. 

FROM MR. G. BURNS. 

Mossgid, \st Jan. 1785* 
DEAR BROTHER, 

1 have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
the usual form, which uatnrally makes me call to 

* Here follows the song of Auld Ian g syne, as printe4 
in the poems. E. 
1 Here followed the song. My Bonnie Mary. 



86 



LETTERS. 



mind the days of former years, and the society in 
which we used to begin them : and when I look at our 
family vicissitudes, '" thro' the dark postern of time 
long elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how good the God of Seasons is to us, 
and that, however some clouds may seem to lower over 
the portion of time before tis, we have great reason to 
hope that all will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the second, 
join me in the compliments of the season to you and 
Airs. Burns, and beg you will remember us in the same 
manner to William, the first time you see him. 

1 am, dear brother, yours, 
GILBERT BURNS. 



No, LXIII. 



TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-Year-Day Morning. 
This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes ; and 
Would to God that I came under the apostle James's 
description ! — the prayer of a righteous mam availeth 
much. In that case. Madam, you should welcome in 
a year full of blessings : every thing that obstructs or 
disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, should be 
removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can 
taste should be yours. 1 own myself so little a presby- 
terian, that 1 approve of set times and seasons of more 
than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that 
habituated routine of lil'e and thought which is so apt to 
reduce our existence to a kind of instmct, or even 
•ometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little 
(uperior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy blue- 
skyed noon, some time about the beginning, and a hoary 
morning and calm surmy day about the end of autumn ; 
—these, lira out of mind, have been with me a kind ot 
holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spec- 
tator, " The Vision of Mirza :" apiece that struck my 
young fancy before I was capable of fixing an idea to 
a word of three syllables, " On the fifth day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my frefa- 
thers, I always Iceep holy, after having washed my- 
self, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended 
the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the 
day in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the sub- 
stance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for 
those seeming caprices in them, that one should be 
particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with 
thai, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no ex- 
traordinary impression. 1 have some favourite flow- 
ers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, 
the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the 
budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view 
and hang over with particular delight. 1 never heard 
the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer 
noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of gray 
plover in an autumnal morning, without feeling an ele- 
Tation of soul like the enthsiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing. 
Are we a jiiece of machinery, which, like the Eolian 
harp passive, takes the impression of the passing acci- 
dent .'' Or do these workings argue something within 
us above the trodden clod. i" I own myself partial to 
such proofs of those awful and important realities — a 
God that made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or wo beyond 
death and the grave. 



No. LXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland. near Dumfries, ith Jan. 1789. 
SIR, 

As often asT think of writing to you, which has beeu 
three or four times every week these six months, it 
gives me something so like a look of an ordinary sized 
statue offering at a conversation with the Rhodian col- 
ossus, that my mind misgives me, and the alfair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
have, at last, got some business with you, and busi- 
ness-letters are written by the style-book. I say my 
business is with you, Sir, for you never had any with 
me, except the business that benevolence has in tb« 
mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were for- 
merly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that 
a very great deal of my late eclat was owing to the 
singularity of my situation, and the honest prejudica 
of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, 1 do look upon myself as having some 
pretensions from Nature to the poetic character. I 
have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn 
the Muses' trade, is a gift oestowed by Him, " who 
forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but 1 as firmly be- 
lieve, that excellence in the profession is the fruit of 
industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least 1 am 
resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. 
Another appearance from the press 1 put off to a very 
distant day, a day that -may never arrive — but poesy I 
am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Na- 
ture has given very few, if any, of the profession, the 
talents of shining in every species of composition. I 
shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) wheth- 
er she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst 
of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been 
so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, 
that one loses, in a good measure, the powers of criti- 
cal discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is 
a friend — not only of abilities to judge, but with good- 
nature enough, like a j)rudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise, perhaps, a little more than is exact- 
ly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases— heart-breaki.ig des- 
pondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely 
indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obliga- 
tion of your being that friend to me .■• I enclose you an 
essay of mine in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; 
I mean the epistle addressed to R. &. Ksq, or Robert 
Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of uncommon 
woi th , to whom I lie under very great ol ligations. The 
story of the poem, like most of my poems, is connected 
with my own story ; and to give you the one I must 
give you something of the other. I cannot boast of— 



I believe T shall, in whole, lOOZ. copy-right included, 
clear about 400/. some little odds ; and even part ot 
this depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle 
with me. I give you this information, because you did 
me the honour to interest yourself much in my wel 
fare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married 
" my Jean," and taken a farm : with the first step, 1 
have every day more and more reason to be satisfied, 
with the last, it is rather the reverse. I have a younger 
brother who supports my aged mother; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
iast return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 180i. to 
save them from ruin. Not that 1 havb lost so much — { 
only interposed between my brother and his impend 
ing fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs 
on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part : I was 
conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was 
pretty heavily charged ; and 1 thought that throwing a 
little filial [liety. and fraternal affection, into the scale 
in my favour, might help to smooth matters at lh« 



LETTERS. 



87 



grand rsckoning. There isstill one thing would make 
my circumstances quite easy : I have an excise-officer's 
commission, and 1 live in the midst ol' a country divis- 
ion. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the 
commissioners of excise, was if in his power, to pro- 
cure me that division. If I were very sanguine, I 
might hope that some of ray great patrons might pro- 
cure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, surveyor- 
general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poe- 
try, delightful maid 1" I would consecrate my future 



days. 



No. LXV. 

TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Wth Jan. 1789. 
SIR, 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a 
few days after I had the happiness of meeting you in 
Ayrshire, but you were gone for the Continent. I have 
added a few more of my productions, those for which I 
am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The pieces in- 
scribed to R. G. Esq. is a copy of verses I sent Mr. 
Graham, of Fintry, accompanying a request for his 
assistance m a matter, to me, of very great moment. 
To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted, for 
deeds of kindness of serious import to my dearest in- 
terests, done in a manner grateful to the delicate feel- 
ings of sensibility. This poernis a species of composi- 
tion new to me ; but 1 do not intend it shall be my last 
essay of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's Pro- 
gress." These fragments, if my design succeeds, are 
but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it 
shall be the work of my utmost exertions ripened by 
years : of course I do not wish it much known. The 
fragment, beginning "A little, upright, tart, pert," 
&c. I nave not shown to man living, till now 1 send it 
you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defini- 
tion of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
pleased in a variety of lights. This particular part I 
send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait- 
sketching ; but lest idle conjecture should pretend to 
point out the original, please let it be for your single, 
sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble to a gen- 
tleman who has treated me with sucli marked benevo- 
lence and peculiar kindness ; who has entered into my 
interests with so moth zeal, and on whose critical 
decisions I can so fully depend .■" A poet as I am 
by trade, these decisions to me are of the last conse- 
quence. My late transient acquaintance among some 
of the mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with 
ease ; but to the distinguished champions of genius and 
learning, I shall be ever ambitious of being known. 
The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr. 
Stewart's critical strictures ; the justness (iron justice, 
for he lias no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic 
sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of 
Professor Dahel'a taste, I shall ever revere. I shall 
be in Edinburgh some time next month. 
i have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your highly oblige. 1, 

And very humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS, 



No. LXVI. 

TO BISHOP GEDOES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, ddFeb. 1788, 
VENERABLE FATHER, I 

As I am conscious, that wherever I am, you do me 
the honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it eives 



me pleasure to in^'orm yon that I am here at last «ta. 
tionary in the serious business of life, and have now not 
only the retired leisure but the hearty inclination to 

attend to those great and important questions 

what 1 am? where I am ? and for what I am des- 
tined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there 
was ever but one side on which I was habitually blame- 
able, and there I have secured myself in the way 
pointed out by Nature and Nature's God. I was sen- 
sible that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, a 
wife and family were encumbrances, which a species 
of prudence would bid him shim; but when the al- 
ternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, 
on account of habitual follies to give them no worse 
name, which nogeneral example, no Hcentious wit, no 
sophistical infidelity, would to me, ever justify, I must 
have been a fool to have hesitated, and a roadman to 
have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably 
secure: 1 have good hopes of my farm; but should 
they fail, I have an excise commission, which on my 
simple petition, will at any time procure me bread. 
There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow honour 
from any profession ; and though the salary be com- 
paratively small, it is great to any thing that the first 
twenty-fiveyearsof my life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you 
may easily guess, my reverend and much-honoured 
friend, that my characteristical trade is not forgotten. 
I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the 
Muses. I am determined to study man, and nature, 
and in that view incessantly ; and to try if the ripen- 
ing and corrections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon 
for detaining so long, that I have been tuning my lyre 
on the banks of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
floating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, 
I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you : which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I 
shall have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you 
were pleased to honour me, you must slill allow me to 
challenge ; foi with whatever unconcern 1 give up my 
transient connexion with the merely gieat, I canno* 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and good, 
without the bitterest regret. 



No. LXVII. 



FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 



If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, ofDuniop, yon 
have certainly heardof the author of the verses which 
accompany this letter. He was a man highly res ct- 
able for every accomplishment and virtue which 
adorns the character of a man or a christian. To a 
great degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, which 
prevented in a great degree his figuring in life, and con- 
fined the perfect knowledge of his character and tal- 
ents to a small circle of his chosen friends. He was 
untimely taken from us, a few weeks ago, by an in- 
flammatory fever, in the prime of life — beloved by ail 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all 
who have any regard for virtue and genius. There is 
a wo pronounced in Scriptiu-e against the person whom 
all men speak well of ; if ever that wo fell upon tba 
head of mortal man, it fell upon him. He ha» left b©* 



LETTERS. 



hind hira a considerable number of compositions, 
ciiiefly poetical, sufficient, I imagine, to make a large 
octavo volume. In particular, two complete and reg- 
ular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some smaller 
poems on different subjects. It falls to my share, who 
have lived in the most intimate and uninterrupted 
friendship with hira from my youth upwards, to trans- 
mit to you the verses he wrote on the publication of 
your incomparable poems. It is probable they were 
his last, as they were found in his scrutoire, folded up 
with the form of a letter addressed to you, and, I ima- 
gine were only prevented from being sent by himself, 
by that melancholy dispensation which we still be- 
moan. The verses themselves I will not pretend to 
criticise when writing to a gentleman whom 1 consider 
as entirely qualified to judge of their merit. They are 
the only verses he seems to have attempted in the Scot- 
tish style : and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish muse ; — 
and allow me to add, that, if it is your opinion they 
are not unworthy of the author, and will be no discre- 
dit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. Mylne's friends 
that they should be immediately published in some pe- 
riodical work, to give the world a specimen of what may 
be expected from his performances in the poetic line, 
which, perhaps, will be afterwards published for the 
advantage of his family. 



1 must beg the favour of a letter from you, acknow- 
ledging the receipt of this ; and to be allowed to sub- 
scribe myself, with great regard, 

Sir, your most obedient servant, ' 

P. CARFRAE. 



No. LXVIir. 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Ellislartd \lh March, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from 
the capital. To a man who has a home, however 
humble or remote — if that home is like mijie, the scene 
of domestic comfort — the bustle of Ediiiiburgh will soon 
be a business of sickening disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you." 

When T must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling 
equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle me 
in the mire, 1 am tempted to exclaim — " What merits 
has he had, or what demerit have 1 had, in some state 
of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of 
being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in 
his puny fist, and 1 am kicked into the world, the sport 
of fully, or the victim of pride.'"' 1 have read some- 
where of a monarch' (in Spain I think it was,) who was 
BO out of humour with the itolemean system of astron- 
omy, that he said, had he been of the Creator's coun- 
cil, he could have saved hira a great deal of labour and 
absuidity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; 
but often", as I have glided with humble stealth through 
the pomp of Prince's street, it has suggested itself to 
me, as an improvement on the present human figure, 
that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his 
consequence in the world, could have pushed out the 
lunsjitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out 
his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This tri- 
fling alternation, not to mention th(» prodigious saving 
it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb- 
sinews of many of his majesty's liege subjects, in the 
way of tossing the head and tiptoe-strutting, would 
evidently turu out avast advantage, in enabling us at 
once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
waking way to a great man, and that too within a se- 
cond of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an 
inch of the particular point of respectful distance, 
which the important creature itself requires ; as a 
TOeasuiing glance at its towering altitude would deter- 
mine the affair like instinct. 



Your are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne • 
poem, which he has addressed tome. The piecehas 
a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, 
by far, loo long. Besides, my success has encouraged 
such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl ii to pub- 
lic notice, under the title of Scottish I'otts, tnat tlie 
Very term Scottish Poety borders on the burlesque. — 
When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rath- 
er to try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else 
! would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic 
performances ; and would have offered his friends my 
assistance in either selecting or correcting what would 
be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me 
so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present 
spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the mean time, allow me to close this epistle with a 
few hues done by a friend of mine * ' * '. I give you 
them, that, as you have seen the original, you may 
guess whether one or two alterations 1 have ventured 
to make in them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And all you are, my charming **'*, seem. 
Straight as the foxglove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And evensick'ning envy must approve.* 



No. LXIX. 

TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 



REVEREND SIR, 

I do not recollect that I havee^er felt a severer pang 
of shame, than on looking at the date of your obliging 
letter which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has 
done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the en- 
dearing though melancholy circumstance of its being 
the last production of his muse, deserved a better re- 
turn. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the 
poem to sr.me periodical publication ; but, on second 
thoughts, I am afraid that, in the present case, it would 
be an improper step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of 
nonsense, under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub- 
scription bills for Scottish poems have so dunned, and 
daily do dun, the public, that the very name is in dan- 
ger of contempt. For these reasons, if pubHshing anv 
of Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. be at ail 
prudent, in my opinion, it certainly should not be a 
Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a man of 
genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits what 
ever; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly en- 
titled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
self to reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame 
(among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself) 
always keep in eye his respectability as a man and as 
a iioet, and take no measure that, before the world 
kniiws any thing about him, would risk his name 
and character being classed with the fools of the 
tinies. * 

* These beautiful lines, we have reason to helievei 
are the production of the lady to whom this letter Uu^ 
t dressed. £. 



OTTERS. 



I have, Sir, gome experience of publishing, and the 
Way in which I would proceed with iVIr. Mylne's 
poems is this : 1 would publish in two or three Knglish 
and Scottish public papers, any one of his Englisli 
poems which should, by private Judges, be thought the 
most excellent, and mention it, at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of respect- 
able character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it an idea to publish soon, by subscription, 
for the sake of his numerous family : — not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends thinlt 
the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in 
the most eHectual manner, to those tender connex- 
ions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of lliose 
merits. 



No. LXX. 

rO DR. MOORE, 



SIR, 



Ellisland, 23d March, 



The gentlman who will deliver you this is a Mr. 
Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhood, 
and a very particular acquaintance of mine. As I 
have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him 
over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a 
way in which he much needs your assistance, and 
where you can cSectually serve him : — Mr. Nielson is 
on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of tiueens- 
berry, on some little business of a good deal of import- 
ance to him, and he wishes for your instructions re- 
Bpecting tlie most eligible mode of travelhng, &c. for 
him, when he has crossed the channel. 1 should not 
have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I am 
told, by those who have the honour of your personal 
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman, is 
a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it 
in your power to serve such a character gives me much 
pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of 
the late Mrs. **'**, of *••>"••». You, probably, 
knew her personally, an honour of which 1 cannot 
boast; but 1 spent my early years in her neighbour- 
hood, and among her servants and tenants, 1 know 
that she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiali- 
ty. However, in the particular part of her conduct 
which roused ray poetie wrath, slie was much less 
blaraeable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, 
I liad put up at Bailie VVhigham's in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, 
and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering 
.11 a night of snow and drift. My horse and I were 
both so much fatigued with the labours of the day ; and 
just as my friend the Bailie and 1 were bidding deliance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, iu wheels the fu- 
neral pageantry of the great Mrs. •«•«•, and poor I 
am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous 
night, and jade my horse, ray young favourite horse, 
whora I had just christened Pegasus, twelve railes far- 
ther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayr- 
shire, to New Curauock, the next inn. The powers of 
poesy and prose sink under rae.when I would describe 
what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at 
New Curanock, had so far recovered ray frozen sinews, 
I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode.* 

I was at Editiburgh lately, and settled finally with 
Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that at last, he has 
bten amicable and fair with me. 



No. LXXI. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, M April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopolus, (God 

• The ode enclosed is that printed in Poems, p. 



as. E, 



forgive me for murdering language,) that I have sat 
down to write you on this vile paper. 



It is economy. Sir ; it is that cardinal ylrtue, pr-u- 
dence ; so I beg you will sit down, and either compose 
or borrow a panegyric. If you are going to borrow, 
apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound something very 
clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one 
of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
which was originally intended for the venal fist of 
some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of tsn thousand blessings 
— thou cookof fat beef and dainty greens — thou manu- 
facturer of warm Shetland hose, and comfortable sur- 
touts! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed 
stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose 1 
— lead me, hand me, in thy clutching, palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto in- 
accessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary feet ; 
— not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where 
the hungry worshippers of fame are breathless, clam- 
bering, hanging between heaven and hell ; but those 
glittering clitl's of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, holds his immediate court of joys and 
pleasures; where the sunny exposure of plenty, and 
the hot walls of prolusion, produce those blissful fruits 
of luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of Para- 
dise .'—Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, ush- 
er me into the refulgent, adored presence !— The pow- 
er, splendid and potent as he now is, was once tlie pu- 
ling nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms ! Call 
me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, 
and abjure the god, by the scenes of his infant years, 
no longer to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but 
to favour me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection 1 He daily bestows his greatest kindnesses on 
the undeserving and the worthless— assure him that I 
bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of 
Lucre, I will do any thing — be any thing — but the 
horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of 
public robbery 1 



But to descend from heroics. 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an English 
Dictionary--Jolinson's I suppose is best. In these and 
all my prose commissions, the cheapest is always the 
best lor me. There is a small debt of honour that I 
owe Mr. Robert Cltghorn, in Saughton Mills, my 
worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give 
him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see 
him, ten shillings worth of any thing you have to sell, 
and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that 1 mentioned to you is al- 
ready begun, under the direction of Captain Riddel. 
There is another in emulation of it going on at Close- 
burn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith of Close- 
burn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. 
Capt. R. gave his infant society a great many of his 
old books, else 1 had written you on that subject ; but 
one of these days, 1 shall trouble you with a communi- 
cation for the Muukland Friendly Society ;" — a copy 
of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lo.nger; Man oj 
Feeling, Mart of the World, Guthrie'^ Geograp/ii- 
cal Grammar, with some religious pieces, will likewise 
be our first order. 

When I grow richer T wi!.l write to you on gilt pos., 
to make amends for this sheet. At present eve -y 
guinea has a five guinea erraiui with, 
My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 

R B. 



90 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, ith April, 1789. 
I no sooner hit on any puelic iilan or lanc)', but I 
wish to send it to you : and if knowing aud reading 
these give half the pleasure to you, that communica- 
ting them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 



I have a. poetic whim in my head, which I at present 
dedicate, or rather insciibe, to the Right Hon. C.J. 
Fox : but how long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. 
A few of the first iiues I have just rough-sketched, as 
follows.* 



On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of as 
taring you, in person, how sincerely I am— 



No. LXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, ith May, 1789. 
MT DEAR SIR, 

Your duly-free favour of the 26lh April I received 
two days a^o ; 1 will not say I perused it witli plea- 
sure ; that is the cold compliment of ceremony ; 1 pe- 
rused it, Sir, with delicious sa'.isfaction — in short, it is 
such a letter, that not you nor your friend, but the le- 
gislature, by express proviso in their postage-laws, 
should frank. A letter informed with the soul of 
fiiendship is such an honour to human nature, that 
they should order it free ingress and egress to and from 
their bags and mails, as an eiicouragenaeut and mark 
of distinction to superemiuent virtue. 

T have just put the last hand to a little poem which I 
think will be something to your taste. One morning 
lately as 1 was out pretty early in the fields sowing 
some grass seeds, 1 heard the burst of a shot trom a 
neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little 
wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot 
a hare at this season, when they all of them have young 
ones. Indeed there is something in that business of 
destroying, for our sport, individuals in the animal 
creation that do not injure us materially, which I 
could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue! 



On seeing a Fellow wound a Hare with a Shot, April 
1789. 
Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity sjoth thee with a sigh. 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field 
The bitter little that of life reitiaius : 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form. 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed. 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head , 

The cold earth with thy bluod-stained bosom 
warm. 

• Here was copied the Fragment inscribed to C, J. 
Fox. See Poems, p. 81. 



Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its we'; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy tide ; 

Ah ! helpless nurslings, who v-ill now provid* 
That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 

Let me knew how you like my poem. I am doubtful 
whether it would not be an improvement to keep out 
the last stanza but one altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the Author of 

man. You , he, and the noble Colonel of the C 

F are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the 
tune of " Tliree guid fellows ayont the glvn," 



No. LXXIV. 

The poem in the preceding letter had also been sent by 
our Bard to Dr. Gregory for his criticism. The fol- 
lowing is that gentleman's reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

Edinburgh, '2d June, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

I take the first leisure hour I could command, to 
thank you for your letter, and the copy of verses en- 
closed in it. As there is veal poetic merit, I mean both 
fancy and tenderness, and some happy expressions in 
them, I think they well deserve that you should revise 
them carefully and polish them to the utmost. This I 
am sure you can do if you please, for you have great 
Command both of expressun and of rhymes : and you 
may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's 
poetry that I gave you, how moch correctness and high 
polish enhance the value of such compositions. As you 
desire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you my 
most rigoro IS criticisms on your verses. I wish yoii 
would give me another edition of them, much amended, 
and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who I am sure will 
have much pleasure in reading it. Pray give me like- 
wise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much amenii- 
ed as you please) of the Water Fowl on Lock Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject ; but 
the measure or stanza you have chosen for it, is not a 
good one ; it does aol floio well ; and the rhyme of the 
fourth line is almost lost by its distance from the first, 
and the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were you, 
I would put it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first two lines 
are too strong or coarse ; but they may pass. " Mur- 
der-aiming is a bad compound epithet, and not very 
intelligible. " Blood stained," in stanza iii. line 4. 
has the same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely bet- 
ter. You have accustomed yourself to such epithets, 
aiid'have no notion how stiff and quaint they appear 
to others, and how incongruous with poetic fancy and 
tender sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, " Wh7 
that bloodstained bosom gored," how would you have 
liked it .'' Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, 
nor a plain common word : 't is a mere sportsman's 
word ; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," in thia 
sense, is a nursery word, but both may pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that life a moth- 
er only can bestow?" will not do at all : it is not 
grammar — it is not intelligible. Do you mean, "pro- 



LETTERS. 



91 



ride for that life which the mother had bestowed and 
used to provide for ?" 

There was a ridiculous siip of the pen, " Feeling" 
(( suppose) for " Fellow," in (lie title of your copy of 
verses ; but even fellow would be wrong ; it is Wit a 
colloquial and vulgar word, unsuitable to your senti- 
ments. " Shot" is improper too. On seeing aperson 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it is needless to add 
with what weapon : but if you tliink otherwise, you 
•houldsay, with, a fowling piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and I will 
•how you some more of Mrs. Hunter's poems.* 



No. LXXV. 

TO MR.M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON, 

itk June, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

Though I am not without my fears respecting my 
fate, at that grand, universal inquest of right and 
wrong, commonly called The Last Day, yet I trust 
there is one sin, which that arch vagabond, Satan, 
who I understand is to be king's evidence, cannot 
throw i:i my teeth, I mean ingratitude. There is a 
certain pretty large quanfjm of kindness, forw^'ch I 
remain, and from inability, I fear must still remain, 
your debtor ; but, tlioogh unable to repay the debt, I 
assure you. Sir, 1 shail ever warmly remember the ob- 
ligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasurs to hear, by 
my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in 
immortal Allan's language, "Hale and weel, and liv- 
ing ;" and that your charming family are well, and 
promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to 
the company of performers, whom the great Manager 
of the drama of Man is bringing into action for the 
succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you 
once warmly and efleclively interested yourself, 1 am 
here iu my old way, holding my plough, marking the 
growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at 
limes sauntering by the delightful windings of the 
Nith, on the margin of which I have built my humble 
domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or holding 
an intrigue with the muses, the only gipsies with whom 
J have now any intercourse, -is 1 am entered into the 
holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned com- 
pletely Zionward ; and as it is a rule with all honest 
fellows to repeat no grievances, I hojie that the little 
poetic licenses of former days will of course fall under 
the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute cf 
celestial proscription. In my family devotion, which 
like a good presbycerian, I occasionally give to my 
household folks, 1 am extremely fond of the psalms, 
" Let not the errors of ray youth," 4c. and that other, 
" \m, children are God's heritage'" &c. ; in which last, 
Mrs. Burns, who, by the by, has a glorious " wood- 
note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me 
with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more 
^Ustinguished by its good sense, than by its freedom 
from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the 
manner in which the poet may be supposed to have re- 
ceived it. In fact, it appears, as the sailors say, to 
have thrown hira quite aback. In a letter which hs 

wrote soon after, he says, " Dr. G is a good 

man. hut he crucifies me." — And again, " I believe in 

the iron justice of Dr. G ;" but, like the devils, " I 

believe and tremble." However, he profited by these 
criticisms, as the reader will find by comparing the 
first edition of this piece with that published in p. 69 
of the Poems. 



No. LXXVI. 

TO MR-<. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 21 sr June, 1789. 
DEaR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserahl,^ effusions, 
of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring.* 
I know not of any particular cause for this worst of all 
my foes besetting me, but for some time my soul has 
been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil 
imagiuations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 
I have just heard « « • • give a sermon. He 
is a man famous for his benevolence, and I revere 
him ; but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, 
deliver me.' Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignorant 
and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is 
an incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom I owe my 
existence, and that he must be intimately acqaainted 
with the operations and progress of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deportment of this 
creature which 1 think he has made : these are, I think, 
selfevifient propositions. That there is a real and 
eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and con- 
sequently, that I am an accountable creature ; that 
from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well ac 
from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, 
in the administration of affairs, both in the natural and 
moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of ex- 
istencS beyond the grave— must, I think, be allowed by 
every one who will give himself a moment's reflection. 
I will go farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, 
excellence and purity, of his doctrine and precepts, 
unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learn- 
ing of many jireceding ages, though, to appearance, he 
himself was the obscurest, and most illiterate of our 
species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 



■ Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the hap- 
piness of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; anrf 
whatever injures society at large, or any individual id 
it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed? I trust ths» 
I have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye a 
one whose good opionion I value almost next to the ap 
probation of my own mind. 



No. LXVII. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-street, \Qth Jane, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

I thank you for the different communications you have 
made me of your occasional productions in manuscript, 
all of which have merit, and some of them merit of a 
different kind from what appears in the poems you 
have published. You ought carefully to preserve all 
your occasional productions, to correct and improve 
I hem at your leisure ; and when you can select as many 
of these as will make a volume, publish it either at Ed- 
inburgh or London, by subscrij.tion ; on such an occa- 
sion, it may be in my power, as it is very much my iu- 
clination, to be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an oiiinion, it would be, that, in 
your future productions, yon should abandon the Scot- 
tish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure end 
language of modern English peetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitatii fl of Cfiriet 
kirk on the Green, with the tiresome repetition i.f 
'• that day," is fiitiguing to English ears, and 1 should 
think uot very agreeable to Scollish. 



LETTERS. 



All the fine satire and humour of your Holy Fair is 
lost on the English ; yet, wilhout mure trouble to your- 
self, you could have conveyed the whole of them. The 
same is true of your other poems. In your Epistle to 
J . il. — — , the stanzas, from that beginning with this 
line, " This life, so far's I understand," to that which 
ends with — "Short while it grieves," ate easy, flow- 
ing, gayly philosophical, and of Horaliau elegance 
— the language is English, with a/e2« Scottish words, 
and some of those so harmonious as to add to the beau- 
ty ; for what poet would not prefer gloaming to twi 
iiS.ht ) 

I imagine, that by careful keeping, and occasionally 
polishing and correcting those verses, which the Muse 
dictates, you will, within a year or two, have another 
volume as large as the first, ready for the press : and 
this without diverting you from every proper atten- 
tion to the study and practice of husbandry, in which 
I understand you are very learned, and which I fancy 
you will choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry 
amuses you from time to time as a mistress. The 
former, like a prudent wife, must not show ill-hu- 
mour, although you retain a sneaking kindness to 
this agreeable gipsy, and pay her occasional visits, 
which in no manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but leads ou the contrary, to promote 
her interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech to send 
you a copy of Zelaco. This performance has had 
great success here ; but I shall be glad to have yuur 
opinion ot it, because I value your opinion, and be 
cause I kuow your are above saying what you do not 
think. 

I beg you will ofi'er my best wishes to my very 
good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who I understand is 
your neighbour. If she is as happy as I wish her, 
she is happy enough. Make my compliments also 
to Mrs. iiurus : and believe me to be, with sincere 
esteem, 

Dear Su-, yours, &c. 



No. LXXVIII. 



FROM MISS J. LITTLE. 



SIR, 



Loudon House, 12;A July, 17S9. 



Though I have not the happiness of being personally 
acquainted with you, yet, amongst the number of those 
who have read and admired your publications, may 1 
be permitted to trouble you with this. You must know , 
Sir, 1 am somewhat in love with the Muses, though 1 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned to con- 
fer upon me as yet ; my situation in life has been very 
much against me as to that. I have spent some year's 
in and about Eccelefechan (where my parents reside,) 
in the station of a servant, and am now come to Lou- 
don House, at present possessed by Mrs. H : she 

is<laughter of Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, whom 1 under- 
stand you are particularly acquainted with. As 1 had 
the pleasure of perusing your poems, I felt a partiality 
for the author, which I should not have experienced 
had you been in a more dignified station. I wrote a 
few verses of address to you which I did not then think 
of ever presenting; but as fortune seems to have fa- 
voured me in this, by bringing me into a family, by 
whom you are as well known and much esteemed, and 
where perhaps I may have an opportunity of seeing 
you, I shall, in hopes of your future friendship, take 
the liberty to transcribe them. 



Pair fa' the honest rustic swain 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain, 
Thou gie's us joy to hear thy strain, 
And notes sae sweet' 
Old Ramsay's shade reviv'd again 
In thee we greet. 



LoT'd Thalia, that delightful muM 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did herald refuse, 

Since Allan's day ; 
Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm j 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tispity e'er their gabs should Steele 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures ouce a week, 

Nine miles I'd traveL 

The dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie homespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleeA 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame ; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

la your Lament ; 
Butglanc'd by the most frigid dame. 

She would relent. 

The daisy too, ye singwi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill } 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughboy sing with throat aae clear 

They, in a rage, 
Their works would a' in pieces tear. 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint ; 
Aly rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint. 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop — with heart sincere 
To Heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
Dispens'd by an indulgent care, 

To Robert Burns I 



Sir. I hope you will pardon my boldness in this, my 
I hand trembles while 1 write to you, conscious of my 
unworthiiiess of what 1 would most earnestly solicit, 
viz. your favour and friendship; yet hoping you will 
show yourself possessed oi as much generosity and 



LETTERS. 



93 



good nature as will prevent your exposing what may 
jutlly be found liable to censure in lliis measure, 1 
•hall take the liberty to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

JANET LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to honour me with a 
few lines from your hand, 1 would tal<e it as a particu- 
lar favour ; and direct to me at Loudon House, near 
Galslon. 



No. LXXIX. 

FROM MR. •♦•••*. 

London, 5th August, 1789. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommi/n abilities 
which you possess must render your correspondence 
very acceptable to any one. 1 can assure you 1 am 
particularly proud of your partiality, aii<I shall endea- 
vour, by every methed in my power to merit a continu- 
ance of your politeness. 



When you can spare a few moments, I should he 
proud of a letter from you, directed to me, Gerard- 
■treet, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the 
Instance of your attachment to my late inestimable 
friend, Bob Fergusson,* who was particularly inti- 
mate with myself and relations. While I recollect 
■with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and many 
amiable qualities, it aflords me the greatest consola- 
tion that 1 am honoured with the correspondence of 
his successor in the national simplicity of his genius. 
That Mr. Burns has refined it in the art of poetry, 
must readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding many 
favourable representations, 1 am yet to learn tliat he 
inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, such a 
plentitude of fancy and attraction in him, that when 
1 call the happy period of our intercourse to my memo- 
ry, I feel myself in a state of delirium. 1 was then 
younger than him by eight or ten years, but his manner 
was so felicitous, that he enraptured every person a- 
round him, and infused into the hearts of the young 
and the old the spirit and animation which operated 
on his own mind. 

I am. Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 



TO Mr. **". 

In answer to the foregoing. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, 
and the indolence of a poet at all limes and seasons, 
will, 1 hope, plead my excuse for neglecting so long to 
answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. 

That you have done Weil in quitting your laborious 
concern in*'"" I do not doubt : the weighty reasons 
you mention were, I hope, very, deservedly, indeed, 
weighty ones, and your health is a matter of the last 
importance : but whether the remaining proprietors of 
the paper have also done well, is what 1 much doubt. 
The '**', so far as 1 was a reader, exhibited such a 
brilliancy of point, such an elegance of paragraph, 

* The erection of a monument to bim. 



and such a variety of inteligence, that I can hardly 
conceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the 
same degree of excellence; but, if there v.'as a man 
who had abilities equal to the task, that man's assist- 
ance the proprietors have lost. 



When I received your letter, I was transcribing for 
***', my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate, 
Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tomb- 
stone over poor Fergusson, and their edict, in conse- 
quence of my petition, but now I shall send them to 
* * * ' 1 oor Fergusson ! If there be a life be- 
yond the grave, which 1 trust there is ; and if there be 
a good God presiding over all nature which I am 
sure there is, thou art now enjoying existence in 
a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, depri- 
ved of all their pleasure purchasing powers, return to 
their native sordid matter: where titles and honour 
are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and 
where that heavy virtue, which is the negative eonse. 
quence of steady dullness, and those thoughtless, 
though often destructive follies, which are the unavoid- 
able aberrations of frail human nature, will be throwa 
into equal oblivion as if they had never been. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your present views 
and schemes are concentrated in an aim, 1 shall be 
glad to hear from you ; as your welfare and happiness 
is by no means a subject indifferent 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



MADAM, 

Of tlie many problems in the nature of that wonder 
lul creature, Man, that is one of the most extraordina- 
ry, that he shall go on from day to day, from week to 
week, or month to month, or perhaps from year to 
year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from 
the impotent consequences of neglecting what we ought 
to do, than the very doing of it would cost him. 1 am 
deeply indebted to you, first from a most elegant poe- 
tic compliment ;* then for a palite obliging letter ; and 
lastly, for your excellent poem on the Slave-trade ; 
and yet, wretch that 1 am ! though the debts were 
debtsof honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put off, 
and put off, even the very acknowledgment of the obli- 
gation, until you must indeed be the very angel I take 
you for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I 
have a way, whenever I read a book, I mean a book in 
our own ti-ade, Madam, a poetic one, and when it is 
my own property, that I take a pencil and mark at 
the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, 
little criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I 
peruse along. I will make no apology for presenting 
you with a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to 
me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to 
show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I 
take to be truths, even when they are not quite on the 
side of approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith, that 
you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with 
pleasure. 

I had lately the honotir of a letter from Dr. Moore, 
where he tells me that he has sent me some books. 
They are not yet come to hand, but 1 hear they are on 
the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress in the path 
of fame ; and that you may equally escape the dan- 
ger of stumbling through incautious speed, or losing 
ground through loitering neglect. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

• See Miss Smith's Sonnet, page 101.— note. 



94 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXXII. 

FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 

Itk August, 1789. 
DEaRSIR, 

1 do not lose a moment in returning you my sincere 
ackaowIeJgmenls lor jour letter, and your criticism 
ou my poem, wiiicli is a very flattering proof that you 
have r<!ad il with attention. 1 lliink your ohjectious 
ar perfectly just, except in one instance. 



You have indeed been very profuse of panegyric on 
my little peiformunce. A much less portion of ap- 
plause from you would have been gratifying to me ; 
since 1 think its value depends entirely upon the source 
from whence it proceeds — the incense of praise, like 
other incense, is more grateful from the quality than 
the quantity of the odour. , 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of poetry, 
which are precious, even indepemlent of ihe lewards 
of fame. I'erhups the most valuable property of jio- 
elry is its power of disengaging the mind from world- 
ly cares, and leading the inuiginution to the richest 
Bprings of intellectual enjoyment; since, however fre- 
quently life may be chequered with gloomy scenes, 
tliose who truly love the Muse can always find one lit- 
tle path adorued with flowers and cheered by suu- 
shiue. 



No. LXXXIII. 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 6th Sept. 17S9. 
DEAR MADAM, 

I have mentioned, in my last, my appointment to the 
Excise, and the birth of little Prank, who, by the by, 
I trust will be uo discredit to the honourable name of 
WuHace, as he has a fine manly coimleuance, and a 
figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months 
older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, though, 
when he pleases, he has a pipe, only not quite so loud 
as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a sig- 
nal to take out the piu of Sliding bridge. 

I had some tinw ago an epistle, part poetic, and 
part prosaic, fronr, your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very 
Ingenious but modest composition. I should have 
written her, as she requested, but for the hurry of this 
new business. I have heard of her and her composi- 
tions iu thi« country ; and I am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know 
not well how to write to her : I should sit down to a 
sheet of pai>er that I knew not how to stain. 1 am no 
dab at fine-drawn letter-writing ; and except when 
prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which hap- 
pens extremely rarely, inapired by the Muse (I know 
not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I 
sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would sit 
down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20lh August struck 
me with the most melancholy concern for the state of 
your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! 1 
would sit down to it with as much pleasin-e as 1 would 
to write an Kpic poem of my own composition that 
should equal the //ia<i. Religion, my dear friend, is 
the true comfort. A strong persuasion in a future 
stite of existence ; a proposition so obviously proba- 
ble, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least 
near four thousand years, have in some mode or oilier 
firmly b«licved it. lu vaiu would we reason and pre- 



tend to doubt. I have mysetf none so to a rerf daring 
pilch: but when 1 reflected that I was opiwsiiig the 
most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes of 
good men, and living in the face of all human belief, in 
all ages, 1 was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the follow- 
ing lines, or if you have ever seen them ; but it is one 
of my favourite qiioiaiions, which 1 keep consianl/y 
by me in my progress through life, iu the language ot 
the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war" — 

spoken of religion. 

" 'Tis Mis, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 

'Tis this that gilds the hoiror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms afiliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast Lids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been very busy with Zeliico. The Doctor is 
so obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and 1 have 
been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on 
novel. writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. 1 
shall, however, digest my thoughts on the subject as 
Well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performanca. 

Farewell 1 Dieii, le bon Dieuje voua commend* 



No. LXXXIV. 

FROM DR. ULACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2ith August, 17S9. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art ; 
If art it may be call'd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diS'uses, 
And W!<niis thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sago's face, 
Or bid the softer passion rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth? 
Whether the muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent. 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and heallh return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ 1 
Happy while yet these hours remain 
If Burn^ rould join the cheerful train. 



LETTERS. 



95 



V/llh wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute ouce more his humble Bervaiit, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXV. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.— See Poems, p. 8 

No. LXXXVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, luHOi. OF FINTRV. 



SIR, 



9th December, 1789. 



I have a good while had a wigh to trouble you with a 
letter, and had certainly clone it ere now — but for a 
humiliating Bometliing that throws cold water on the 
resolution, as if one should say, " You have found Mr. 
Graham a very powerful and kind iVitnd indeed ; and 
that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ouijht, by every thing in your power to keep alive 
and cherish." Now though since God has thought 
proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the 
connexio.'i of obliger and obliged is all fair; and though 
my being under your patronage is to rne highly honour- 
able, yet, Sir, allow me to flalier myself, that as a poet 
and an honest man, you first hilerested yourself in my 
welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me 
to approach you. 

I have found the excise-businesB go on a great deal 
smoother with me than I expected : owing a good deal 
lo the generous friendship of Mr. Mitchell, my collect- 
or, and the kind assistance of Air. FindlaU;r, rny su- 
pervisor. 1 dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. 
Nor do 1 find my hurried life greatly inimical lo my 
correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and 1 believe lo most of their acquaintance, 
like Ihe visits of good angels, are short and far be- 
tween ; but 1 meet them now and then as I jog through 
the hills of NithsJale, just as I used to do on the banks of 
Ayr. I take llie libeily to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
all i>f them the pruductiuiis of my leisure thoughts in 
my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose the 
aiitiijuarian, you will enter into any humour that is in 
the verses on him. i'erhape you have seen them before, 
as I sent them lo a Lo;idon newspaper. Though 1 dare 
•ay you have none of the Bolemn-league-and-covenant 
fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gor- 
don and ihe Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one af the clergymen 
of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor 
man ! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well ae 
one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk 
of Scotland, in every senseof that ambiguuus lerrn, 
yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in 
imminenl danger of being thrown out to the mercy 
of Ihe winter- winds. The enclosed ballad on that bu- 
siness is, 1 confess, too local, but I laughed myself at 
some conceits in it, though 1 am convinced in my con- 
science that lliere are a good many heavy stanzas iu it 
too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the 
present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not be- 
lieve there will be such a hard-run match in the whole 
Ijeneral election.* 



I am too little a man lo have any political attach- 
ments ; 1 am deeply indebted lo, and have the warm- 



* This alludes lo the contest for the borough of Dum- 
tries, between the Duke of (iueensberry's interest and 



est veneration for, indlvi luals of both parties ; but x 
m:in who has it in his power lo be the father of a coon- 
iry, and who * * • • is a character that one 
cannot speak of with patience. 



Sir J. J. does " what man can do ; 
his fate. 



but yet I doubt 



that of Sir Jitraes Johnstone. S 



No. LXXXVII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EtlUhnd, nth December, 1789 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheetful of 
rhymes. 'J'huugh at pre«enl I am below the veriest 
jjruse, yet from yuu every thing pleases. I arn gruan- 
ing under the iniseriesof a Uiseased nervous system ; a 
system, the state uf which is most conductive to our 
happiness— or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near thi ee weeks 1 have been so ill with the ner- 
vous head ache, that 1 have been obliged to give up for 
a time my excise-boi>ks, being scarcely able to lift my 
head, much less to ride once a week over ten muir 
parishes. What is man .^ To-day in the luxuriance 
of health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a 
few days, perhaps a few hours, loaded with conscious 
painful being, counting the tardy pace of the lingering 
moments by the repercussions of anguish, and refusing 
or denied a comforter, day follows night, and nighl 
comes after day, only to curse him with life which 
gives him no pleasure ; and yet the awful, darlc 
termination of that life is a something at which he 
recoils. 



" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be I 



lis no matter ; 



A little time will make us learu'd as you are. 



Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, tc- 
verUh being, I shall still find myself in conscious exicit- 
ence I When the last gasp of agony has announced 
that 1 am no more lo those that knew me, and Ihe few 
who loved me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigneil into the earth, to he the prey 
of unsightly refililes, and to become in lime a trodden 
clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoy- 
ing and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy fla- 
mens, is their probability in your conjectures, truth m 
your stories, of another world beyond death ; or, are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the 
benevolent, the amiable, and the humane : what a flat- 
tering idea, then, is a world to come I Would lo God 
1 as firmly believed it, as 1 ardently wish it ! There I 
should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many 
buffetiiigs of an evil world, against which he has so 
longand bravely struggled. There should 1 meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend of my early life ; the 
man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and 

could serve me. Muir ; thy weaknesses, were the 

aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed 
with every thing generous, manly and noble; and if 
ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a 
human form, it is thine ! — There should 1, with speecl*. 
less agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever 
dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, hou> 
our, constancy, and love. 



My Mary, dear departed shade I 
Wh.re is thy place of heavenly rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ; 
Hear'st thou the groans that read his trsMtf 



LETTERS. 



Jeaug Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust 
tiiou art no imposter, and that thy revelation of blisa- 
iful scenes of existence beyond death and the grave, is 
not one of the many impositions which time after lime, 
have been palmed ou credulous mankind. I trust that 
in ihee '• shall all the families of the earth be blessed," 
by being yet connected together in a better world, 
■where every tie that bound heart to heart, in this stale 
of existence, shall be, far beyond our preaeat concep- 
tions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those who 
maintain, tnat what are called nervous afl'eclions are 
in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, 1 can- 
not think J and but to you 1 would not venture to write 
any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt 
too much of the ills of life not to sympathize with a dis- 
eased wretch, who is impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this 
distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely 
read, and which he would throw into the fire were he 
able to write any thing better, or indeed any thing at 
all. 



Rumour told me something of a son of yours who 
was returned from the Kast or West-Indies. If you 
have gotten news of James or Anthony, it was cruel 
in yon not to let me Know ; as I promise you on the 
sincerity of a man who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing could 
give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing 
befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in 
pity to le pauvre miserable. 



No. LXXXVIII. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

BIR, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been omit- 
ted in the statistical account transmitted to you, of the 
parish of Dunscnre, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send 
U to to you, because it is new, and may be useful. How 
farit is deserving of a place in your patriotic publica 
lion, you are the best judge. 



To store the minds of the lower classes with useful 
knowledge is certainly of very great importance, both 
to them as individuals, and to society at large. Giving 
.hem a turn for reading and reflection, is giving them 
a source of innocence and laudable amusement ; and, 
beisdes, raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gen- 
tleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenrid- 
del, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a 
plan so simple as to be practicable in any corner of the 
country ; and so useful as to deserve the notice of every 
country gentleman, who thinks the improvement of 
that part of his own species, whom chance has thrown 
into the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, a 
matter worthy his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, and 
farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society 
for the purpose of having a library among themselves. 
They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it 
for three years : with a saving clause or two, in case 
of aremoval to a distance, or of death. Each member, 
at his entry, paid five shillings ; and at each of their 
meetings, which were held ever fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry money, and the credit 
■which they took on the faith of their future funds, they 
laid in a tolerable stock of books, at the commence- 
ment. What authors they were to purchase, was al- 
ways decided by a majority. At every meeting, all 
the'books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way 
of penalty, were to be produced : and the members had 
their choice of the volumes in rotation. He whose 
name tloot for that night first on the list, had his choite 



of what volume he pleased in the collection; the se- 
cond had his choice after the first ; the tbiid after the 
second ; and so ou to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting 
was last ai this . he who had been second was first; 
and so on through the whole three years. At the expi- 
ration of the engagement, the books were sold by auc- 
tion, but only among the members themselves; and 
each man had a share in the common stock, in money 
or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which was 
formed under Mr. Riddle's patronage, what with bene- 
factions of books from him, and what with their own 
purchases, they had collected together upwards of one 
hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, 
that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among 
the books, however, of this little library, were, Bloir'a 
^'erTnons, Robertson^ s History of Scotland, Hume'a 
History oj the Stuarts, The i^pcctator. Idler, Adven- 
turer, Mirror, Loungrr , Observer, Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World, Chrystal, Don Quixalte, Joseph 
Andrews, &c. A peasant who can read and enjoy 
such books, is certainly a much superior being to his 
neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little removed except iu shape, from the brutes he 
drives.* 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much-mer- 
ited success, 

I am, Sir, your humble servant, 

A PEASANT. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SHaRPE, ESa. OP HODDOM. 

Under a fictitious Signature, inclosing a ballad, 1790 
or 1791, 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and for- 
tune, and I am a poor devil ; you are a feather in th« 
cap of society, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes ; 
yet 1 have the honour to belong to the same family 
with you, and on that score I now address you. You 
will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim your af- 
finity with the ancient and honourable house of Kil- 
patrick : No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even any province or 

* This letter is extracted from the third volume of 
Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598.— It was enclosed 
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following le^ 
ter, a»so printed there. 

"Sir John, I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. 
Burns.as an addition to the account of Dunscore parish. 
It contains an account of a small Hbrary which he was 
60 good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the barony 
of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its 
utility has been felt, particularly among the younger 
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were es- 
tablished in the different parishes of Scotland, it would 
tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the tenant 
ry, trades people, and work-people. Mr. Burns was 
so good as to take the whole charge of this small con- 
cern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this 
little society, who will long have a grateful sense of 
his public spirit and exertions for their improvement 
and information, 

I have the honour to be, Sir John, 
Yours, most sincerely, 

ROBERT RIDDEL." 
To Sir John Sinclair, of Ulster, Bart, 



LETTERS. 



97 



lliigdom, as my mother, wno for many years was 
•I'ouse to a marchii>g regiment, gave me into this l.ad 
world, aooard the packet boat, somewhere between 
Uonaghaaee and foripatrick. By our common fami- 
ly, 1 mean, Sir, the family of the Muses. 1 am a tid- 
dler aua a poet ; and you, 1 am told, play an exquisite 
Tioliu, and have a standard taste in Belles Letters. 
'i"he other day, a brother catgut gave a charming 
Scots air of your composition. If 1 was pleased with 
the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have giv- 
en it ; and, taking up the idea, I have spun it into 
three stanzas enclosed. Will you allow me. Sir, to 
present you them, as the dearest offering that a misbe- 
gotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ; I nave a 
longing to take you by ths hand and unburden my 
heart by saying — " Sir, 1 honour you as a man who 
supports the dignity of human nature, amid an age 
when frivolity ar.d avarice have, between them, de- 
based us below the brutes that perish!" But, alas, 
Sir! to me you are unapproachable. It is true, the 
Muses baptized me in Castilian streams, but the 
thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a Name. As the 
8«K have served many a good fellow, the Nine have 
piven me a great deai of pleasure, but bewitching 
jades ! they have beggared me. Would they but spare 
me a little of their cast linen ! were it only to put it in 
my power to say that I have a shirt on my back 1 But 
the idle wenches, like Solomon's lillies, '• they toil not 
neither do they spin ;" So 1 must e'en continue to tie 
nr.y remnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope 
round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to 
keep together their many-coloured fragments. As to 
the affair of shoes, 1 have given that up. My pil- 
grimages in ray ballad-trade from town to town, and ou 
your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even 
the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The coat 
on my back is*no more: I cannot speak evil of the 
dead. It would be equally unhandsome and ungrate- 
ful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly 
supplies and concetls tbe want of that coat. My hat 
itideed is a great favourite; and though I got it liter- 
ally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the 
best beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, 
a kind of factotum servant to a clergyman, where I 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, particular- 
ly in some branches of mathematics. Whenever I 
feel inclined to. rest myself on my way, I take my seat 
under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on my one side, 
and my fiddle-case or. the other, and placing my hat 
between my legs, 1 CCJI by means of its brim, or rather 
brims, go through tiui'^StloisdozUine of the Conic Sec- 
tions. 

However, Sir, doi.' Jot IQgECJtIeadyou, as if I would 
interest your pity. Portuuj bas so much forsaken me, 
that she has taugbt me to h7e without her ; and, amid 
all my rass and poverty, I am as independent, and 
much more happy than a monarch of the world. Ac- 
sording to the haekneyed metaphor, I value the several 
actors in the great drama of life, simply as they act 
their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a 
duke with unqualified contempt ; and can regard an 
honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you. Sir, 
go through your roll with such distinguished merit, 
permit me to make one in the chorus of univer- 
sal applause, and assure you that, with the highest 
respect, 

1 have the honour to be, &c. 



No. XC. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, Wth January, 1790. 
DEAR BROTHER, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have 
not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for 
exertion in writing. My nerves are in a **** state. 
I feel that horrid hypocondria pervading every atom 
of both body and soul. This farm has undone my en- 
joyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. 
But let it go to ***• 1 I'll fight it out and be off with it. 

M 



We have gotten a set of very decent players )a«t 
now. 1 have seen them an evening or two. David 
Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the 
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent 
worth. On New-Year day evening I gave him the 
tollowing prologue,* which he spouted to his audience 
with applause — 

I can no m )re. — If once I was clear off this**'* farm 
I should respire mor« at ease. 



No. XCI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 
It has been owing to unremitted hurry ot business 
that I have not written to you, Madam, long ere now, 
My health is greatly belter, and 1 now begin mice more 
to share in salisfaciiou and enjoyment with the rest of 
my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your 
kind letters ; but why will you make me run the risk 
of being contemptible and mercenary in my own eyes ? 
When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope 
it is neither poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I am 
so flattered with the honour you have done me, in ma- 
j me your compeer in friendship and friendly cor- 
respondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree 
of mortification, be reminded of the real inequality 
between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, 
in the good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety 
bout his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, 
.'arm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little 1 had 
of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, 
which you so much admire, is no more. After witnes- 
sing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes 
in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of 
fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate ', 
1 forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giv 
ing him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and SiiB> 
fortune. t He was one of those daring adventurw, 

* This prologue is printed in the Poems, p. 82. 

t Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a wo* 1 
of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which caoa- 
city he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of 
the satire on Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, theu 
purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, 
and delighted in giving him instruction ; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of 
him as his scholar. The Editor had this inforraatioB 
from a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew 
both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished 
soon after by shipwreck on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr. An- 
derson to his works, in the complete edition of the 
Poets of Great Britain, it is said — " Of the family, 
birth-place, and education of William Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the authority already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of the 
towns on the coast of Fife : and that his parents who 
had suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of the 
sea-ports of England, where they both died soon after, 
of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a 
boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of wbieb 
he entered on board a man-of-war. These last CM* 
cumsianceE are, however less certain, E. 



LETTERS 



•piriU which Rca»lan(?, beyond anr other country, is 
remarkable for producing. Little does the load moth- 
er think, as she haogs delighted over the sweet little 
leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereaf- 
ter wander, and what may be hia fate. 1 remember a 
Dtanza in an old Scottish ballad, which notwithstand- 
ing its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly lo the heart : 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land 1 was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die !" 

Old Scottish songs are, yoa know, a favourite study 
Jind pursuit of mine; and now I am on that subject, 
allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple 
ballad, which ! am sure will please you. The catas- 
trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish : 

' that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
3 that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I bad died when I was young t 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 

And O Bae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have met 
with any thing more truly the language of misery than 
the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like luve ; 
to speak its language truly, the author must have felt 
it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to eive yonr 
little godson* the small pox. They are rife in the 
country, and 1 tremble for his fate. By the way 1 can- 
not help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
Every person who sees him acknowledges him to be 
the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. lam 
myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, 
and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his 
head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which pro- 
mise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time 
forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of 
it, next time I have the honour of assuring you how 
truJ* I am, &c. 



<SO. A oil. 

rKOM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

^th January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable to 
quote any one's own words ; but the value I have for 
your friendship, nothing can more truly or more ele- 
gantly express than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having heard 
from you, I am apt to think my letters have miscar- 
ried. My conjecture is only framed upon the chapter 
of accidents turning up against me, as it too often does, 
in the trivial, and, I may with truth -^dd, the more im- 
portant affairs of life ; but 1 shall continue occasion- 
ally to inform you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in' these parts, in these days of merri- 
ment, I have frequently heard your name proclaimed 
Ml the iovial board — under the roof of our bospiiaii'.e 
friend at Slenhouse-mills ; there were no 

• The bard's aeccod son, Francis. E. 



" Lingering moments numbered with eare." 

I saw your Address to the New Year, in the Dun^ 
fries Journal. Of your jiroducli'jns I shall say qo> 
thing ; but my acquaintance allege that when your 
name is mentioned, which every man of celebrity mu»t 
know often happens, I am the champion, the Mendoza, 
against all snarling critics aitd narrow minded reptiles, 
of whom a ftw on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her black- 
eyed sister, 1 remain 

'Vouri, &v% 



No. XCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Elliiland, Kth February, 1790. 
I bee your pardon, my dear and much valued frieiw!, 
for writing lo you ou this Tery unfashionable, unsight- 
ly sheet— 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since on modish post I hava 
none, except one poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which 
hes in my drawer among my plebeian foolscap pages, 
like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpo 
lite scoundiel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy 
and i ine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-mate of a village-priest ; or a glass o{ 
whiskey-toddy, with the ruby-nostd yoke -fellow of a 
foot-pa'ddii;g exciseman — I make a vow to enclose thii 
sheet full of epistolary fragments in that ray only scrap 
of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly 
letters. 1 ought to have written to you long ere now. 
but it is a literal fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. 
It is not that I will not write to you ; Miss Burnet is 
not more dear lo her guardian angel, nor his grace the 
Duke of ••••««••« to the powers of *'*-* than my 
friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot 
write to you ; should you doubt it, lake the following 
fragment which was intended for you some time ago, 
and be convinced that I can nntilhesize sentiment, and 
circumvolute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase 
in the regions of philology. 

December, 1789. 
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

Where are you ? and what are you doing .■" Cau 
you be that son of levity who takes up a friendship as 
he takes up a fashion ; or are you, like some other ol 
the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of indo- 
lence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a por 
fion of conscious existence, equally capable of enjoy- 
ing pleasure, happiness, and ra|)ture, or of suffering 
paid, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of 
an inquiry whether there be not such a thing as a sci- 
ence of life, whether method, economy, and fertility 
of expedients, be not applicable to enjoyment ; and 
whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure 
which renders our little scantling of happiness still 
less ; and a profuseness and intoxication in bliss, which 
leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. There 
is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, de- 
cent cnmpetency, respectable friends, are real substan- 
tial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those who 
enjoy many or all of these good things, contrive, not- 
withstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot 
few of them have fallen : I believe one greet source 
of tills mistake or misconduct is owing to a certain 
stimulus, with us called ambition, whi«h goads us up 
the hill of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for 
the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended land- 
scape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking 
down on others of our fellow-creatures Beeminjrly di- 
miiiutive iu hvimbler stations^ &c. &c. 



LETTERS. 



99 



ScUurdmj, Mth February 1790. 

God help me I I am now obliged lo join 

" Night to (lay, and Saturday to tlie week." 

Iftnerebe any trutli in the orthodox fr.i(li of these 
churches, ; am "*** past redemiJtion, and what is 
worse, «'•" to ail eternity. I am deeply read in Bos- 
ton's Fourfold atate, Marshal on Snncli/ication, 
Guthrie's Trial oj a Saving Interest, &c. ; but 
" there is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician 
there," for me ; so I shall e'en turn Armenian, and 
trust to " sincere though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, \9th. 
Luckily for me I was prevented from the discussion 
of the knotty point ai which I had just made a full stop. 
All my fears and cares are of this world : if there is 
another, an hunest man has nothing to fear from it. 1 
hate a man that wishes to be a Deist ; but, I fear 
every fair, un|.rejudiced inquirer must in some degree 
be a Sceptic. It is not that there are any very stagger- 
ing arguments against the immortality of man; but 
like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the subject is so invol- 
ved ill darkness, that we waul data to go upon. One 
thing frightens me much : that we are to live for ever, 
seems too good news to be true. That we are to enter 
a new scene of existence, where exempt from want and 
pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends, without 
satiety or separation — how much sliould I be indebted 
to any one ".vho cuuld fully assure me that this was cer- 



My time is once more expired. T will write to Mr. 
Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns. 
And may all the powers that preside over conviviality 
and friendship, be present with all their kindest influ- 
ence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you 
meet! I wish I could '••Iso make one. — 1 think we should 
be • • • « 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever things are 
lovely, wliatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever Things 
are charitable, whatsoever things are kind, think on 
these things, and think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly, Socie- 
ty, it was resolved to augment their library by the fol- 
lowing books, which you are lo send us as soon as pos- 
sible : — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World, (these for my own sake, I wish to 
have by the first carrier,) Knox's History of the Re 
formation ; Rue's History of the Rebellion in 1715; 
any good History of the Rebellion in 1745 ; a Display 
of the Sessalion Act and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb ; 
H^vey's Medita'ions ; Beveridge's Thoughts; and 
another copy of Watson's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months 
ago, to pay some money he owed me into your hands, 
and lately I wrote to you to the same purpose, but 
1 have heard from neither one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, 
I want very much. An Index to the Excise Laws, or 
an Abridgment of all the statutes now in force reli- 
tive to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; I want three 
copies of this book : if it is now to be had, cheap or 
dear, get it for me. An honest country neighbour of 
mine wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger the bet- 
ter, but tecondhanded, for he does not choose to give 



above ten shillings for the book. I -want liiewise for 
myself as you can pick them up, second-handed or 
clieap, copies of OiMjrty's Dravuitic Works, Ben Jon- 
son's, Dryden's, Congrtve's, Wychcrley's, Van- 
burgh's, Cibber's, or any Dramatic Works of the 
more modern Macklin, Garrick, Foots, Colt-man, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too, of Moliere, in French, I 
much want. Any other good dramatic authors in that 
language 1 want also, but comic authors chieflv, though 
1 should wish to \>&VK Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire 
too. lam in no hurry for all, or any of these ; but 
if you accidentally meet with them very cheao, eet 
them for me. j f> b 

And now to quit the dry walk of business, how do 
you do, my dear triend ? and how is Mrs. Hill? I 
trust, if now and then not so elegantly handsome, at 
least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My 
good wife, too has a charming "wood-note wild;" 
now could we four 



lam out of patience with this vile ■world for one 
thing. Mankind are by nature benevolent creatures. 
Except in a few scoundrelly instances, 1 do not think 
that avarice of the good things we chance to have, is 
born with us ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we 
are under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist J Still there are, in every 
age, a few souls, that all the wants and woes of this 
life could debase to selfishness, or even to the necessa- 
ry alloy cf caution and prudence, if eyerl amin dan- 
ger of vanity, u is when 1 contemplate myself on this 
side of my disposition and character. God knows I 
am no saint ; 1 have a whole host of follies and sins 
to answer for : out if 1 could, and 1 believe 1 do it as 
far as J cmu, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Aditu 1 



No. XCV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUistar.d, 19th April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, enjoyed 
a very high luxury, in reading a paper of the Lounger. 
You know my national prejudice. 1 had often read 
and admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, 
and World: but still with a certain regret, that they 
were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas I have I 
often said to myself, what are all the boasted advarta- 
ges which my country perhaps reaps from the union, 
that can counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
pendence, and even her very name ! I often repeat 
that couplet of my favourite poet. Goldsmith 

" States of native liberty possess'd, 
Tho' very poor may yet be very bless'd." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common terras, 
" English ambassador, English court, &c. And I am 
out of all patience to see that equivocal character, 
Hastings, impeached by '' the Commons of England." 
Tell me, ray friend, is this weak prejudice.'* I believe 
in my conscience such ideas as, "my country; her 
independence ; her honour ; the illustrious names 
that mark the history of my native land ;" &c. I be- 
lieve these, among your men of the world, men who in 
fact guide for the most part and govern our world, are 
looked on as so many modifications of wroiigheaded- 
ness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, 
to rouse or lead the ra66/e ; but for their own private 
use ; with almost all the able statesmen that ever ex- 
isted, or now exist, when ihey talk of right and wrong, 
they only mean proper and improper, and their mea- 
sure of coiuluct is, not what they ounht, but what they 
dare. For the truth of this 1 shall not ransack the 
history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest men 
that ever lived— the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In 
fact, a man who could thoroughly coiitiol his vicea 



100 



LETTERS. 



whenerer they interfered with his intereats, and who 
could completely putonlhe appearance of every virtue 
as it suited his purposes, is, on llie Slauliopiau plan, 
the perfect man; a man to lead nations. Bui are 
great abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished 
without a bleinisii, the standard of human excellence ? 
This is certainly the staunch opinion of 7neri of the 
toorld ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth to give 
the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, this 
must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the 
idea of existence beyond the grave, then the true mea- 
sure of human conduct is joro/>er and improper: Virtue 
and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, 
ot scarcely the same import and value to the world at 
large, as harmony and discord in the modifications of 
sound; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear 
for music, though it may sometimes give the possessor 
an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, 
yet, considering the harsh gratings of iidiarnionic 
jars, in this ill limed state of being, it is odds but the 
individual would be as happy, and certainly would be 
as much respected by the true judges of society, as it 
Would iheu stand, without either a good ear or a good 
heart. 

You must know I have just met with the Mirror 
and Lounger for the first time, and I amrjuite in rap- 
tures with them ; 1 should be gl-^d lo have your opinion 
of some of the papers. The one I ha^>e Just read. 
Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
any ihing 1 have read of a long time. M'Kenzie has 
been called (he Addison of the Scots ; and, in my 
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. 
If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as cer- 
tainly outdoes him in the tender and pathetic. His 
Man of Peeling, (but I am not counsel-learned in the 
laws of criticism,) I estimate as the first performance 
in its kind 1 ever saw. From what book, moral, or 
even pious, will the susceptible young miud receive 
impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, 
generosity and benevolence ; in short, more of all that 
ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others — 
than from the simple, affecting tale of poor Harley i 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's wri- 
tings, 1 do not know if they are the fittest reading for 
a youngraan who is about to set out, as the phrase is, 
to make his way into life. Do not you think. Madam, 
that among the few favoured of Heaven in the struc- 
ture of their minds, (for such there certainly are,) 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an ele- 
gance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
gree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly important 
business of making a man's way into life. Ifl am not 
much mistaken, my gallant youjig friend, A*'"" is 
very much under these disqualifications ; and for the 
young females of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude ; for I, a common ac- 
quaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, an humble 
friend, have often trembled 'or a turn of mind which 
may render them eminently happy — or peculiarly mis- 
erable I 

I hare been manufacturins; some verses lately ; but 
as I have fot the most hurried season of excise-busi- 
ness over, 1 hope to have more leisure to transcribe any 
thing that may show how much 1 have the honour lo 
be, Madam, yours, ifc. 



No. XCVI. 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 23rA May, 1789. 
MY DEAR BURNS, 

I am much indebted to you for your last friendly, 
elegant epistle, and it shall make a part of the vaniiy 
of my composition, to retain your correspondence 
through life. It was remarkable your introducing the 
name of Miss Burnet, at a time when she was in such 
ill health : and 1 am sure it will grieve your gentle 
b«ttrt, lo hear of her being in ihe last stage uf a con- 



sumption. AU« ! that 80 much beauty, innocence 
and virtue, should be nipped in the bud. Hers waa 
the smile of cheerfulness — uf sensibility, not of allure- 
ment i and her elegance of manners corresponded with 
the purity and elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse? I am sure she still 
retains her ailection for you, and that you have many 
of her favours in your possession, which 1 have noi 
seen. I weary much to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life pros- 
per, and thai your roof tree enjoys the blessing of good 
iiealth. All your friends here are well, among whom, 
and 710^ the least, is your acquaintance, Cleghorn. At 
fur myself, I am well, as far as •«••••• will let a mau 
be, but with these 1 am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable friend, J. 
Syine, give him a hearly squeeze, and bid God bless 
him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon in Edin 
burgh i 



No. XCVII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Dumfries, Excise-office, Uth July, 1790. 
SIR, 

Coming into town this morning, to attend ray duty 
in this office, it being collection-day, 1 met with a gen- 
tleman who tells me he is on his way to London ; so I 
take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking ia 
at present under a temporary death. I shall have 
some snatches of leisure through the day, amid our 
horrid business and bustle, and 1 shall improve them 
as well as 1 can ; but let my letter be as stupid as • 
* * *, as miscellaneous as a nswspaper, 
as short as a hungry grace bcfore-meat, or as long as a 
law paper in the Douglass cause : as ill-spelt as coun- 
try John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Bel- 
ly Byre-Mucker's answer lo it — I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and, as it will put 
you to no expense of postage, 1 shall have the less re- 
flection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you thanks 
f)r your most valuable present, Zeluco. \n fact you 
are in some degree blameable for ray neglect. You 
were pleased to express a wish for my opinion of ihe 
work, which so flattered me, thai nothing less would 
serve my overweening fancy, than a formal criticism 
on the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a com- 
parative view of you. Fielding, Richardson, and SmoU 
let, in your difl'erent qualities and merits as novel wri- 
ters. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and 
I may probably never bring the business lo bear ; but I 
am fond of the spirit young F.lihu shows in the book of 
Job — '•And I said, I will also declare my opinion." 
I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my 
annotations. 1 never take it up without at the same 
time taking my pencil, and marking with aslerisms, 
parentheses, &c. wherever 1 meet with an original 
thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a re- 
markably well turned period, or a character sketched 
wuh uncommon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writing out my 
" Comparative View," 1 shall certainly trouble you 
with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my genileman, thai horrid 



LETTERS. 



101 



■ammona In the book of nevelalion— " That time shall 
be no more I" 

The little collection of sonnets have somecliarniing 
poetry in them. If indeed 1 am indebted to tlie lair au- 
thor for the book, and not, as 1 ratlier suspect, to a 
celebrated author of the other sex, I should certainly 
nave written to the lady, willi my grateful acknowl- 
edgments, and my own ideas of the comparative ex- 
cellence of her pieces. I would do this last not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of 
much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my 
own feeling as an author, doing as I would be done by. 



No. XCVIII. 

TO MRS.DUNLOP. 

8th Aug. 1790. 
DEAR MADAM, , . , 

After a lon°- day's toil, plague, and care, 1 sit down 
to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so 
Jong ? It was owhig to hurry, indolence, and tilty oth- 
er tbings : in short, to any thing— but forgetfulness of 
la plus amiable de son scxe. lly the by, you are in- 
debted your best courtesy to me for this last compli- 
ment, as I pay it from my sincere conviction of its 
truth— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my 
troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised today ! A 
ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaint- 
ance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I 
perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
has wounded my pride 1 



No. XCIX. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, Sth August, 1780. 
Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear friend, my 
seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy 
the busy hfe 1 lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an 
apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country gran- 
nam at a family christening : a bride on the market 
day before her marriage I . • • « « 

...«•* • • a tavern- 

keeper at an election dinner ; Sfc. &c.— but the resem- 
blance that hits my fancy best, is that blackguard 
miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring 
lion, seeking, searching whom he may devour. How- 
ever, tossed about as 1 am, if I choose (and who would 
not choose) to bind down with the crampets ot atten- 
tion the brazen foundation of integrity, 1 may rear 
up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. 
And is not this a '•consummation devoutly to be 
wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion heart and eagle-eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky I 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduc- 
tion ofSmoUi-t's Odf to Independence : if you have not 
seen the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is 
the man that hangs on by the favours of the great. To 
shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a 
lordly piece of self-consequence, who amid all his tin- 
sel giilterand s'.itely hnutenr is but a creature, form- 
ed as thou art— and perhaps not so well formed as thou 
art— came into the world a puling infant as thou 



didst, and must go out of it ai all men must a bk> 

ked corse.* 



No. C. 

FROM DR. BLaCKLOCR. 

Edinburgh, \st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend, must I languish to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear I 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written. 
But from age and infirmity indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of integrity, genius, and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth, 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear by the name of the Bee, 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can. 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from every gay bloom, 
With some rays of your genius her worK may il- 
lume. 
While the flower whence her honey spontaneously 

flows, 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tia time to conclude, 
And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
Thus free from the servile employ of excise, Sir, 
We hope soon to hear you commence Supervisor ; 
You then more at leisure, and free from control. 
May indulge the strong passion that reigns in your 

soul ; 
But 1, feeble I, must to nature give way, 
Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey ; 
From verses though languid my thoughts must un- 
bend, 
Though still I remain your afi'ectionate friend, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CI. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, Mth October, 1790. 
I lately received a letter from our friend B* ****'***, 

what a charming fellow lost to society— born to great 

expectations— wiih superior abilities, a pure heart, and 
untainted morals, his tate in life has been hard indeed 
—still I am persuaded he is happy : not like the gal- 

• The preceding letter explains the feelings under 
which this was written. The strain of indignant in- 
vective goes on sometime longer in the style which our 
Bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the reader 
has already seen 90 much. E, 



102 



LETTERS. 



iant, tne gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of rural 
enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the remembrance 
of " the days of other years."* 

I saw Mr. Dunbar, put under the cover of your 
newspaper Mr. Wood's poem on Thomson. This poem 
lias suggested an idea to me which you alone are capa- 
ble to execute— a song adapted to each, season of the 
year. The task is difficult, but the theme is charm- 
ing : should you succeed, I will undertake to get new 
music worthy of the subject. What a fine field for your 
imagination ! and who is there alive can draw so 
many beauties from Nature and pastoial imagery 
ai yourself.' It is, by the way, surprising, that there 
does not exist, so far as I know a proper song ior each 
season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, skating, 
and one autumnal song. Harvest Home, As your 
Aluse is neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount 
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your 
pocket for every season. For my suggestions, if I be 
rude, con eel me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; if pre- 
suming, despise me. But if you blend all my weak- 
nesses, and pound uitt cue grain of insincerity, then I 
am not thy 

Faithful Friend. &c. 



No. CII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1890. 
" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news 
from a far country." 

Fale has long owed me a letter of good news from 
Vou, in return for the miny tidings of sorrow which I 
nave received. In this instance I most cordially obey 
the apostle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice," — 
for me to sing for joy, is no new thing ; but to preach 
for joy, as 1 have done in the commencement of this 
epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which i 
never rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy — How 
could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly 
Veep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his 
best friend ? 1 seized my gilt-headed VVangee rod, an 
instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in 
the moment of inspiration and rapCure ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker— out skipped I among the 
broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. 
To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. 
Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sin- 
cere compliment, to the sweet little fellow, than I, 
extempore, almost, poured out to him in the following 
Verses. See Poems, p. 75 — On the Birth of a Pos- 
thumous Child. 



1 am much flattered by your approbation of my Tarn 
o'Shanter, which you express in your former letter ; 
though, by the by, you load me in that said letter with 
accusations heavy and many : to all which I plead not 
guiity! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach 
me. As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it lor 
Ihe press, you have only to spell it right, and place the 
capital letters properly : as to the punctuation, the 
printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o'Skanter ready to send 
you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy to send 
by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consequence of 
your recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. — 
Please favour me soon with an account of your good 
folks; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and the young geutle- 
Jnau doing well. 

* The person here alluded to is Mr.'S. who en- 
gaged th'' Editor in this undertaking. See the Dedi- 



No. cm. 

TO MR, CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellislnnd. 23d January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear 
friend I As many of the good things of this life ad is 
consistent with the usual mixture of good and evil in 
the cup of being I 

I have just finished a poem, which you will re- 
ceive enclosed. Jt is my first essay in the way ol 

tales. 

I have for these several months been hammering at 
an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Bur- 
net. 1 have got, and can get no further than the fol- 
lowing fragment, on which please give me your stric- 
tures. In all kinds of poetic composition I set great 
store by your opinion : but in sentimental verses, in the 
poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more 
value on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do 
on yours. 

I meEin the introductory couplets as text verses.* 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 

No. CIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

17/^ January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over against 
that****** account of yours! which has gasged my 
mouth these five or six months 1 I can as little write 
good things as apologies to a man I owe money to. O 
the supreme curse of making three guineas do the busi« 
ness of five I Not all the labours of Hercules ; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage 
weresuchan insuperable business, suoh an *'*•**'* 
task! Poverty! thou half sister of death, thou cousin- 
german of hell! where shall I find force of execration 
equal to the amplitude of thy demerits.!* Oppressed 
by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the 
practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretch- 
edness, implores a little — little aid to support his ex- 
istence from a stonyhearted son of Mammon, whose 
sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him 
denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of 
sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and 
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or 
writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely of 
arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the 
son of genius, whose ill starred ambition plants him at 
the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in 
suffering silence his remark neglected, and his person 
despised; while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts 
at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. 
Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of'thee, the children of folly and vice, though 
in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equal- 
ly under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortun- 
ate disposition and neglected education, is condemned 
as a fool forhis dissipation, despised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want ; and when his unpi'incipled necessities drive him 
to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, 
and perishes by the justice of his country. But far 
otherwise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. 
His early follies and extravagance are spirit and fire ; 
his consequent wants are the embarrassments of an 
honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he 
has gained a legal commission to jjlunder distant prov. 
inces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, per- 
haps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a »*«*•• and a 

* Immediately after this were copied the first, six 
stanzas of the Elegy given in p. SZ, of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



103 



lord. Nay, worse of all, alas, for helpless woman I 
the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of 
the street waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitu- 
tion, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by 
the charriot-wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurrying 
on to the guilty ass^nation ; she who without the 
same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same 
guilt}' trade. 

Wei: ! Divines may say of it what they please, but 
execration is to the mind what phlebotomy is to the 
body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully reliev- 
ed by their respective evacuations. 



cv. 

FROM A. P. TYTLER, ESa. 

Edinburgh, Xith March, 1791. 
DEAR SrR, 

Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet of 
Grose's Antiquities, containing a poem of yours en- 
titled Tarn o'Shanter, a tale. The very high pleasure 
I have received from the perusal of this admirable 
|)i«ce, I feel, demands the warmest acknowledgments. 
Hill tells me he is to send off a packet for you this day : 
i cannot resist, therefore, putting on paper what I must 
have told you in person, had I met with you after the 
recent perusal of your tale, which is, that I feel 1 owe 
you a debit, which, if undischarged, would reproach 
me with ingratitude. 1 have seldom in my life tasted 
of higher enjoyment from any work of genius, than I 
{lave received from this composition : and I am much 
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never written 
another syllable, would not have been sufficient to 
have transmitted your n»me down to posterity with 
high reputation. In the introductory part, where you 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit him a', 
the ale-house ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have 
delineated nature with a humour and naivete that 
would do honour to Matthew Prior ; but when you 
describe the infernal orgies of the witches' sabbath, 
and the hellish scenery in which they are exhibited, 
vou display a power of imagination that Shakspeare 
himself could not have exceeded. I know not that I 
have ever raei with a picture of more horrible fancy 
than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That sliaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my blood 
tan cold within me : 

" A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft." 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' raair 
•' horrible and awl'u'," &c. the descriptive part might 
perhaps have been better closeil, than the lour lines 
which succeed, which, though good in themselves, yet 
as they derive all their merit from the satire they con- 
tain, are here rather misplaced among the circum- 
Blaiices of pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch, is most happily described — the effect of her 
charms exhibited in the dance on Satan himself— the 
apostrophe, " Ah ! little thought thy reverend gran- 
nie !" — the transport of Tarn, who forgets his situa- 
tion, and enters completely into the spirit of the scene, 
are all features of high merit in this excellent composi- 
tion. The only fault that it possesses, is, that the 
winding up, or conclusion of the story, is notcomraen- 
(urate to the interest which is excited by the descrip- 
live and characteristic painting of the preceding parts. 
The preparation is fine, but the result is not adequate. 

*-Our Bard profited by Mr, Tytler's criticlims, and 
eKpunged the foui lines acconliujly 



Bat for this, perhaps, you ha e a good apt logy — ^you 

slick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and feel a lit- 
tle relieved of the weight of that debt J owed you, let 
me end this desultory scroll, by an advice : you have 
proved yourtalent for a species of composition in which 
but a very few of our own poets have succeeded— Go 
on — write more tales in the same Btyle--you will eclipse 
Prior and La Fontaine ; for with equal wit, equal 
power of numbers, and equal nnivete of exi)reBsion, 
you have a bolder, and more vigorous imagination. 
I am, dear Sir, with much esteem 
Yours, &c. 



No. CVI. 

TO A.F.TYTLER, ESa. 

SIR, 

Nothing lesi than (he unfortunate accident I have 
met with could have prevented my grateful acknowl- 
edgments for your letter. His own favourite poem, 
and that an essay in a walk of the muses entirely new 
to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were 
on the most anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt; to have that poem so much applauded by one 
of the first judges, was the most delicious vibration 
that ever trilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet. 
However, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion 
of evil with the good, which it seems is necessary in 
this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exul- 
tation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two af- 
ter I received your letter, my horse came down with 
me and broke my right arm. As this is the first service 
my arm has done me since its disaster, 1 find myself 
unable to do more than just in general terms to thanlt 
you for this additional instance of your patronage and 
friendship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, 
they are truly there : one of them, the hit at the lawyer 
and priest, I sliall cut out: as to the falling off in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, it can- 
not easily be remedied. Your approbation. Sir, hag 
given me such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition that I am already revolving 
two or three stories in my fancy. If 1 can bring these 
floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
will give me an additional opportunity of ssuring 
you how much I have the honour to be, c&c. 



No. CVII. 



TO MRS.DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 1th February, 1791. 
When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from 
my horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple 
some time, and that tiiis is the first day my arm aiul 
baud have been able to serve me in writing, you will 
allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly 
ungrateful silence. I am now getting belter, and am 
able to rhyme a liale, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think thai the must poetic genius is 
able to compose on the rack. 

T do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my 
having an idea of composing an elegy on the late Alisa 
Burnet of Monboddo. I had the honour of being pret- 
ty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard 
that so amiable and accomplished a piece of God'g 
work* was no more. I have as yet gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which please let rae 
have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
so much exiiausted, that any new idea on the businesi 
is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we can place an old 
idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to 
this last, yoa will judge fioni what fallows : — 



104 



LETTERS. 



{Hen followed the Elegy, as givfin in the Poems, p. 
82, with this additional verse :) 

The parent's hcari Ihat nestled fond in thee, 
That lieart huw sunk, a prey to grief and care : 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and twxre. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance of 
your godson, came safe. This last, Madam, is scarce- 
ly what my pride can bear. As to the little fellow, he 
is, partiality apart, the finest boy 1 have of a long time 
seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, and yet 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little floweret" 
is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the " molher 
plant" is rather recovering her drooping head. Soon 
and well may her " cruel wounds" be healed ! 1 
have written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler, you shall hear farther frona, 
Madam, yours, &.c. 



No. CVIII. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging a present of a valuable Snuffbox, 
icith afine pictuTe of Mary, Queen of Scots, on the 
Lid. 

MY LADY, 

hing less than the unlucky accident of having 
ate roken my right arm, could have prevented rae, 
the moment I received your Ladyship's elegant pres- 
ent by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my warmest 
and most grateful acknowleijgmenls. I assure your 
Ladyship 1 shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion 
shall only be more sacred, lu the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring genius. 
When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of be- 
nevolence for the happiness of others, 1 shall recollect 
your Ladyship : when I would interest my fancy in 
the distresses incident to humanity, 1 shall remember 
the unfortunate Mary. 



No. CIX. 

TO MRS. GRAHAM, 
OF FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of oar Mary, Clueen of 
Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or 
■whether 1 have in the enclosed ballad succeeded be- 
yond my usual poetic success, I know not ; but it has 
pleased me beyond any efl'orl of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account 1 enclose.it particularly to 
you. It is true, the purity of my motives may be sus- 
pected. 1 am already deeply indebted to Mr. G— — 's 
goodness ; and what, in the usual ways of men, is of 
infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do me ser- 
Tice of the utmost Importance in time to come. 1 was 
born a poor dog ; and however 1 may occasionally 
jiick a better bone than 1 used to do, 1 know 1 must 
live and die poor ; but I will indulge the flattering 
fa.ith that my poetry will considerably outlive my pov- 
erty : and, without any fustian affectation of spirit, I 
can promise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me do any thing 
iajurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever 
may be my failings, for fuilinga are a part ol" human 



nature, may they ever be tnose of a generovt heart 

and an independent mind I It is no fault of mine that 

I was born to dependence; nor is it Mr. G '» 

chiefest praise that he can command influence ; but it 
is his merit to bestow, not only with the kindness of a 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; and ' 
trust it shall be muie to receive with IhankfuUiess, ana 
remember with undiminished gratitude. 



No. ex. 



FROM THE REV, G. BAIRD. 

London, 9th February, 1791. 

SIR, 

I trouble you with this letter to inform you that I 
arn in hopes of being able very soon to bring to the 
press, a new edition (long since talked of) of Michael 
£ruce's Poems. The profits of the edition are to 
go to his mother — a woman of eighty years of age — 
poor and helpless. The poems are to be published by 
subscription ; and it may be possible, I think, to 
make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the assistance 
of a few hitherto unpublished verses, which I have got 
from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to you, i» 
not merely to inform you of these facts, it is to solicit 
the aid of your name and pen, in support of the 
scheme. The reputation of Bruce is already high 
wiih every reader of classical taste, and I shall be 
anxious to guard against tarnishing his character, by 
allowing any new poems to appear that may lower it. 
For this purpose the-MSS. [ am in possession of, have 
been submitted to the revision of sonae whose critical 
talents 1 can trust to, and J mean still to submit them 
to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will fake the 
trouble of perusing the MSS.— of giving your opinion, 
and suggesting what curtailmesita, alterations, or 
amendments, occur to you as advisable ? And will 
you allow us to let it be known, that a few lines by 
you will be added to the volume ? 

I know the extent of this request. It is bold to make 
it. But I have this consolation, that though you see 
proper to refuse it, you will uot blame me for having 
made it ; you will see my apology in the motive. 

May 1 just add, that Michael Bruce is one in whose 
company, from his past appearance, you would not, I 
am convinced, blush to be found ; and as I would sub- 
mit every line of his that should nov/ be published, to 
your own criticisms, you would be assured that nothing 
derogatory, either to hmi or you, would be admitted iu 
.hat appearance he may make iu future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute to 
kindred genius, in F&rgnsson ; I fondly hope that th» 
mother of Bruce will experience your patronage 

I wish to have the subscription-papers circulated hr 
the 14th of March, Bruce's birthday, which 1 under- 
stand some friends in Scotland talk this year of obser- 
ving—at that time it will oe resolved, I imagine, to 
place a plain hur/ible slone, over his grave. This at 
least 1 trust you will agree to do— to furnish, in a fevir 
couplets, an inscription iur it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as early as 
possible.' a short delay might disappoint us in procur- 
ing that relief to the mother, which is the object of the 
whole. 

You will be pleased to address for rae under cover to 
the Duke of Alhole, London. 



P. S. Have you ever seen an engravi>ig publi'.hea 
here some time ago, from wie of your poeiias " Olbutk 



LETTERS. 



105 



polt Orb;" If you ha>e not, I sliall have the pleasure giving Targe the victorv. I should have been mortified 
^sending it to you. to the ground if you liad not. 



No. CXI. 

TO THE REY. G. BaIRD. 
swer to the foregoing. 



In, 



Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a 
hesilatiug style, on thebusiiiess of poor Bruce.-" Don't 
1 know, and have 1 net felt the raany ills, the peculiar 
ills, that poetic flesh is heir to ? You sliall have your 
choice of all the unpublished poems 1 have; and had 
your letter had my direction so as to have reached nie 
•ooner (it only came to my hand this moment) 1 should 
have directly put you out of suspense on the subject 
I only ask that some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription-bills may bear, that 
the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's 
liio'.lier. 1 would not put it in the power of ignorance 
to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a 
share in the work for mercenary motives. Nor need 
you give me credit for any reraatkahle generosity in 
my part of the business. I have such a host of pecca- 
dilloes, failings, follies, and backslldings (any body but 
myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appel- 
lation,) that by way of some balance, however trilling, 
in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs Tn 
my very limited power to a fellow-creature, just for 
the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retro- 
spection. 



No. CXII 

TO DR. MOORE 

Ellisland, 21lh February, 1791, 
I do nol know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to 
Grose's Antiquities of Scotland, If you are, the en- 
closed poem will not be altogether new to you. Cap- 
tain Gros« did me the favour to send me a dozen copies 
of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you 
have read the piece before, still this will answer the 
principal end I have in view ! it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your goodness to 
the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, that the 
abilities you have been pleased to commend and patron- 
ize, and are still employed in the way yoa wish. 

The El'-gi/ on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
memory of a man 1 loved murh. Foets have in this 
the same advantaseas Roman Catholics ; they can be 
of service to their friends after they have past that 
bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any 
avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be if any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very 
problematical: but ! am sure they are highly gratify- 
ingto the living: and, as a very orthodox text, 1 forget 
wherein Scripture, says, " whatsoever is notof faith 
is sin ;" so say 1, whatsoever is not detrimental to so- 
ciety, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver 
of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoy- 
ed by his creatures with thankful delight. As almost all 
my religious tenets originate from my heart. I am 
wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can still 
keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved 
friend, or still more dearly beloved ml«tre3s, who is 
gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Q,ueen Mary was begun while 1 was 
busy with Perq/'s Reliques of English Poetry. By 
the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a 
tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for 
your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 'Twas 
ILU unequivocal proof of your loyul gallantry of soul 



I have just read over, once more of many times, your 
Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, as 1 went along, 
every passage that pleased me particularly above the 
rest ; and one, or two I think, which witii humble de- 
ference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits 
of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe 
these marked passages, or at least so much of them as 
to point where they are, and send themtoyou. Origi- 
nal strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is 
your and Fielding's province, beyond any other novel- 
ist 1 have ever perused. Richardson indeed might per- 
haps be excepted; but unhappily, his dramatis per- 
sona are beings of some other world ; and however 
they may captivate the inexperienced romatic fancy of 
a boy or girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper 
minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty 
tax-gaiherer before the Lord, and have lately had the 
intereslto get myself ranked on the list of Excise as a 
supervisor. 1 am not yet employed as such, but in a 
few years I shall fall into the file of siipervisorship by 
seniority. I have an immense loss in the death of the 
Karl of Glencairn, the patron from whom all my fame 
and good fortune took its rise. Independent of my 
grateful attachment to him which was indeed so strong 
that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with 
the thread of my existence ; so soon as the prince's 
friends had got in, (and every dog, you know, has his 
day,)my getting forward iii the Excise would have been 
an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though 
this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and as to 
my boys, poor little fellows I ifl cannot place them on 
as high an elevation in life as 1 could wish, I shall, if I 
am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and independent 
a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages 
which have been treasured up by our Scottish ances- 
tors, this is one of the best, Better be the head o' the 
commonalty as the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however interest- 
ing to me, is of no manner of consequence to you . so I 
shall give you a short poem on the other page, and close 
this with assuring you how sincerely Ihave the honour 
to be yours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book which I present- 
ed to a very young lady whom 1 had formerly charac- 
terized under the denomination of The Rosebud. See 
i'oems, p. 67. 



No. CXIII. 

FROM DR. MOORE, 

London, 2Sth March, 1791. 
DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 18th of February I received only 
two days ago, and this day 1 had the pleasure of wait- 
ing on the Rev. Mr. Bair-d, at the Duke of Athole's, 
who had been so obliging as to transmit it to me, 
with the printed verses on Alloa Church, the Elegy 
on Captain Henderson, and the Epitaph. There 
are many poetical beauties in the former ; what t 
liarticularly admire, are the three striking similics 
from — 

" Or like the snow-falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

By this time he was cross tjie ford.'' 



M2 



J 06 



LETTERS. 



•o exquisitely expressive of the superstitious imprea- 
•ions of the counliy. And llie iweiity-lwo lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses." 

which, in ray opinion, are e<)ual to the ingredients of 
Shakspeare's cauldron in Ma':Oetfi. 

As for the Elegy, the cliief merit of it consists in tlie 
Tery graphical descripuon of tlie objects IjeluiiKing to 
\\\e country iu whicli tlie poet writes, and which none 
i«ut a Scottish poet could have described, and none but 
a real puet, and a close observer of Nature could have 
60 described. 



There is something original, and to me wonderfully 
pleasing iu the Epitaph. 

1 remember yon once hinted before, what you repeat 
in your last, that you had made some remarks on 
Zeluco on the margin. 1 should be very glad to see 
them, and regret you did not send them before the last 
edition, which is just published. Pray transcribe them 
forme: I sincerely value your opinion very highly, 
and pray do not suppress one of these in which you 
censure the sentiment or expression. Trust me it will 
break no squares belweeu us — I am not altiu to the 
bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my mind for 
■ome time: I cannot help thinking you imprudent, in 
•caltering abroad so many copies of your verses. It 
IS most natural to give a lew to confidential friends, 
particularly to those who are coimected with the sub- 
ject, or who are perhaps themselves the subject ; but 
this ought to be done under promise not to give other 
copies. Of the poem you sent me on (iueen Mary, I 
refused every solicitation for copies, but I lately saw it 
in a newspaper. My motive of cautioning you on this 
subject, is, that I wish to engage you to collect all 
your fugitive pieces, not already printed; and, after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to the ut- 
most of your power, 1 would have you publish thein by 
another subscription : in promoting of which I will ex- 
ert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions I wish you would use 
the modern Eiiglish. You have shown yonr powers 
in Scottish sufficiently. Although in certain subjects 
it gives additional zest to the humour, yet it is lost to 
the Knglish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the admiration 
of the whole 1 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. Dunlop of 
Dunlop, I beg to be ari'eclionately remembered to her. 
She must not judge of the warmth of my sentiments 
respecting her by the number of my letters ; I hardly 
ever write a line but on business ; and 1 do not 
know that I should have scribbled all this to you, 
but fur the business part, that is. to instigate you to 
a new publication ; and to fell you, that when you 
have a sufficient number to make a volume, you should 
set your friends on getting subscriptions. I wish i 
could have a few hours' conversation with you — 1 have 
many things to say which I cannot write. If ever 1 go 
to Scotland, 1 will let you know, that you may meet 
ine at your own house, or my friend Mrs. Hamilton, 
or both, 

Adieu, my dear. Sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, \Uh Feb. 1791. 
SIR, 

You must, by this time, have set me down as one of 
the most ungrateful of men. You did ine the honour 
to present me with a book which does honour to sci- 
ence and '.he intelloctual powers of man, and 1 have 



not even so much as acknowledged the receipt cf it.— 
'i'lie fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flatter* 
ed as I was by your tellius me that you wished to have 
my opinion nf tlie work, the old spiritual enemy of man- 
kind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins 
that most easily beset me, jjut il into my head to pon- 
der over the performance with the look out ol a critic, 
and todraw up, forsooth, a deep-learned digest of striiN 
tiires, on a composition, of which, in fact, until i read 
the book, 1 did not even know the lirst principles. 1 
own, Sir, that, at first glance, several of your preposi- 
tions startled me as paradoxical. That the marl-ial 
clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly more 
grand, heroic, and sublime, than the iwingle iwangle 
of a Jew's-harp; that the delicate flexure of a rose 
twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the 
tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and 
elegant than the upright stub of a burdock : and that 
from something innate and independent of all associa- 
tion of ideas ; — these 1 had set down as irrefragable, 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my 
faith. In short. Sir, except Euclid's Elements of 
Geometry, which 1 made a shift to unravel by my 
father's file side, in the winter evenings of the first sea- 
son I held the plough, 1 never read a book which gave 
me such a quantum of information, and added so much 
to my stock o! ideas, as your " Essays on the princi- 
ples of Taste." Oi^e thing. Sir, you must forgive my 
mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I 
mean the language. To clothe abstract philosophy in 
elegance of style, sounds something like a contradiction 
in terms ; but you have convinced me that they are 
quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles nf my late com. 
position. The one iu print is my first essay in the way 
of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. CXV. 

Extract of a Letter 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

l'2th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let 
me have them. For my own part, a thing that I have 
just composed always appears through a double por- 
tion of that partial medium in which an author will 
ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novel- 
ty has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and 
not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like other 
intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, 
with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might 
be adiluced in the revolution of many a hymeneal hon- 
ey-n:oon. But lest 1 sink into stupid prose, and so 
sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, 
1 shall fill up the page in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, which will 
appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well as the 
former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll 
never be peace till Jamie comes hume. When politi- 
cal combustion ceases to he the object of princes and 
patriots, it then, you know becomes the lawful prey of 
historians and poets.* 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, 
you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you 
would oblige me, if, by the charms of your delightful 
voice, you would give my honest efi'usion to '• the me- 
mory of joys that are past I" to the few friends whom 
you indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled oq 
'till 1 hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
ot 

• Here followed a copy of the Song printed in p. 82, 
of the Poems. " By yon castle wa'," &c. 



LETTERS. 



107 



" That hour, o' night's black arch thekey-stane." 
80, goodnight to you ! sound be your sleep, and delect- 
table your dreams ! A-propos, how do you like this 
thought in a ballad I have just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when F gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west is be I lu'e best, 
The lad that ia dear to uiy babie and me ! 



Good nignt, once more, and God bless you I 



No. CXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, llth April, 1791. 
I am once more able, my honoured friend, to return 
you, wilh my own hand, thanks for the many instan- 
ces of your friendship, and particularly for your kind 
anxiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had in 
store tor me. However, life is chequered — joy and sor- 
row — for on Saturday last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy, rather stouter, but not so hand- 
some as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I 
look on your Utile namesake to be my chefd'ceuvre in 
that species of manufacture, as I look on Tarn o' iihan- 
ter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 
'Tis true both the onq and the other discover a spice of 
roguish waggery that might, perhaps, he as well spar- 
ed : but then tliey also show, in my opinion, a force of 
genius, and a finishing polish, that I despair of ever 
excelling. Mrs. Biu-ns is getting stout again, and laid 
as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper 
from the corn ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
ulessing of our hale sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for that 
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, 
which is found among the female world in the more 
elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far 
the most bewitching charm in the famous cestue of Ve- 
nus. It is, indeed, such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- 
stained by some one or other of the many shades of af- 
fectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the 
many species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I should 
think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every oth- 
er earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, I am 
afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally denied to such an humble one as mine : we 
meaner mortals must put up with the next rank of fe- 
male excellence — as fine a figure and face we can pro- 
duce as any rankof life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; 
unaffected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's 
mother wit, and the rudiments of taste; a simplicity 
of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with 
the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disengenuous 
world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- 
ing sweetness of disposition, and a generous warmth 
ol neart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently 
glowing with a more than equal return ; these, with a 
healthy frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, which 
your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are 
the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of 
life. 

This is the greatest efTnrt my broken arm has yet 
made. Do let me hear, by first post, how cher petit 
Moneieui comes on with his small-pox. Msr^f Al- 
mighty goodness preserve and restore iiim ! 



No. CXVII. 

TO . 

OhAli SIR, 

1 am exceedingly to blame in not writing yon long 
ago ; but the truth is, that I am the most indolent of 
•11 human beings : and when 1 matriculate in the her- 



ald's ofTice, I intend that my gupporters shall be two 
sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil 
tak the foremost I" So much by way of apology for 
not thanking you sooner for your'kind execution of my 
commission. 

I would have sent you the poem : but somehow or 
other it found its way into the public papers, where 
you must have seen it. 



I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXVIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

nth June, \^n. 
Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in be- 
halt of the gentleman who waits on you wilh this. He 
is a Mr. Clarke of Moffal, principal school-master 
there, and is at present suflering severely ui>der the 
* * * • * * of one or two powerful individuals 
of his employers. He is accused of harshness to * • • * 
that were placed under his care. God help the teach- 
er, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such as my 
friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with 
his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of 
science in a lellow's head whose skull is impervious 
and inaccessible by any other way than a positive 
fractiire with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it sa- 
vours of impiety to attempt making a scholar of, as 
he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, 
at the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are the ministers, ma- 
gislrates, and town council of Edinburgh j and as the 
business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest 
friend to do every thing in his power to serve the inter- 
ests of a man nf genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know some 
good fellows among the magistracy and council, 

but particularly you have much to say with a reverend 
gentleman, to whom you have the honour ol being very 
nearly related, and whom this country and age have 
bad the honour to produce. I need not name the his- 
torian of Charles V.* 1 tell him, throuo-|i the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentle- 
man who will not disgrace even his patronage. I 
know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, 
that my friend i? falling a sacrifice to prejudiced igno- 
rance, and •«••«'. God help the children- of de- 
pendence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, 
and too often, a'las I almost unexceptionably, received 
by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under 
the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating ad- 
vice. O ! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride 
of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of his de- 
serts ; rather than in civilized life ; helplessly to 
tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of 
a fellow-creature I Eve'-y maii has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings ; and curse on that pri- 
vileged plain-dealing of friendship, which in the hour 
of my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand, 
without at the same time pointing out those failings, 
and apportioning them their share in procuring my 
present distress. My friends, for such the world calls 
ye, atid such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my 
virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies ; 
the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and 
the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind 
without you. And since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude must be incident 
to human nature, do thou. Fortune put it in my po'.v. 
er, always from myself, and of mysel-f, to bear the 
consequences of those errors 1 I do'not want to be In- 

' Dr. Robertson wag uncle to Mr. Cunningham E. 



109 



LETTERS. 



dependent tnat I may sin, but I want to be iiuk-pen- 
rient in my siuuing 

To return, in this ramblin? letter, to the subject 1 
Bet out with, let me recommead my friend, Mr. Clarke, 
to your acquaintance and good offices ; Ills worth enti- 
tles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the 
other. I long much to hear from you — Adieu ! 



No. CXIX. 

FROM THE EARL OP BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, lllh June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, 
en Ertmanflill, on the 22d of September ; for which 
day, perhaps, liia muse may inspire an ode suited to 
the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the 
Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at 
the nearest point from his farm — and, wandering along 
the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, 
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he finds 
Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There 
the commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and 
try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius 
upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. This poetical 
perambulation of the Tweed, is a thought of the late 
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, followed out 
by his accomplished grandson, the present Sir Gilbert, 
who having been with Lord Buchan lately, the project 
was renewed, and will, they hope, be executed in the 
manner proposed. 



No. CXX. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My LORD, 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings 
•when J would thank your Lordship for the honour 
you have done me in inviting me to make one at the 
coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthu- 
siasm in reading the card you did me the honour to 
write to me, 1 overlooked every obstacle, and deter- 
rnined to go ; but 1 fear it will not be in my power. A 
Week or two's absence, in the very middle of my har- 
vest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture on. 

Vour Lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but 
Whocould write after Collins.^ I read over bis verses 
to the memory of Tliomsan, and despaired, i got, iu- 
d';ed, to the length of three or four stanzas, in the 
way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning 
his bust. 1 shall trouble your Lordship with the sub 
jcinedcopy of them, wliich, I am afraid, will be but 
too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. 
However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching 
your Lordship, and declaring how sincerely and grate- 
fully I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXI. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Di-yburgh Abbey, l^th September, 1791. 
SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has been well 
received by the public ; and though I should disap 
prove of your allowing Pegasus to ride with you otf the 
field of your honourable and useful (.rofession, yet I 
cannot resist an impulse which 1 feel a; this moment 
to suggest to your Muse, Hirvest Home, as an excel- 
lent subject for hergraietul song, in which the peculiar 
aspect and manners of our coiuUry might furnish an 
excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, for the 
employment of happy moments of leisure and receft» 
from your more important occupation*. 



Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, wiU remain 
to distant posterity as interesting pictures of rural ir»- 
nociuce and happiness in -your native country, and 
were happily written in the dialect of the people ; but 
Harvest Home, being suited to descriptive poetry, ex- 
cept, where colloipiial, may escape the disguise of a 
dialect which admits of no elegance or dignity of ex 
pression. Without the assistance of any god or god- 
dess, and without the invocation of any foreign Muse, 
you may convey in epistolary form the description of 
a scene so gladdening and picturesque, with all the 
concomitant local position, landscape and costume ; 
contrasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 
of the borders of the once hostile nations of Britain, 
with their former oppression and misery ; and show- 
ing, in lively and beautiful colours, the beauties and 
joys of a rural life. And aa the unvitiated heart is 
naturally disposed to overflow with gratitude in the 
moment of prosperity, such a subject would furnish 
you with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the 
names of Glencairn, Miller, and your other eminent 
benefactors ; which, from what I know of your spirit, 
and have seen of your poems and letters, will not devi- 
ate fiom the chastity of praise that is so uniformly 
united to true taste and genius. 

lam Sir, &c 



No. CXXII. 

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHA 

MY LADY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privi- 
lege your goodness has allowed me, of sending you any 
thing I compose in my poetical way ; but as I had re- 
solved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss 
would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefac- 
tor, I determineil to make that the first piece I should 
do myself the honour of sendingyou. Had the wing of 
my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the 
enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal : 
as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your Ladyship's feet. 
As all the world knows my obligations to the Earl of 
Glencairn, 1 would, wish to show as openly that my 
heart glows, and shall ever glow with the most grate- 
ful sense and remembrance of his Lordship's goodness. 
The sables 1 did myself the honour to wear to his 
Lordship's memory, were not the "mockery of wo." 
Nor shall my gratitude perish with me! if, among 
my children,'l shall have a son that has a heart, he 
shall hand it down to his child as a family honour, and 
a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the 
noble house of Glencairn 1 

I was about to say, my Lady, that if you think the 
poem may venture to see the light, ] would, in some 
way or other, give it to the world.* 



No. CXXIII. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 
MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you ministi-r to a mind diseased ? Can you, 
amid tl:e horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head- 
ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d hounds 

of hell, that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of 
the sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a trou- 
bled soul? 

Miserable perdu that T am ! I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I 
sit a monument of the vengeance laid up in store for .ne 
wicked, slowly counting every check of the clock as 't 

* The poem enclosed is published. See " Ttia T>a« 
ineut for James Earl of Glencairn." Poem*, p 9Sf, 



LETTERS. 



•lowly— slowly, numtiei-s over these lazy scoundrels of 
hours, who J n ihem, are ranked up before me, ev- 
ery one at his neighbour's bacliside, and every one 
win a burden of anguish on his back, to jiour on my 
devoted head — and there is none to pity rae. My 
wife scolds me ! my busijiess torments me, and my 
sins come staring me in the face, every one teiling a 
more bitter tale than his fellow. — When I tell you 
even ' * ' has lost its power to please, you will guess 
something of my hell within, and all around me. 1 be- 
gan Elibanks SLiid Elibraes, but the stanzas fell unen- 
joyed and unfinished from my listless tongue ; at last 
J luckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours 
that lay by me in my book-case, and 1 felt something, 
for the first time since I opened my eyes, of pleasurable 
existence. Well — i begin to breathe a little, since I 
began to write you. How are you ? and what are you 
doing.' Howg'oesLaw? ^^;-o/)Os, for connexion's 
sake, do not address to me supervisor, for that is an 
honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, as we 
call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by and 
by to act as one : bui at present I am a simple gauger, 
though t'other day I got an appointment to an excise 
division of 25/. per ann. better than the rest. My pre- 
Bent income, down money, is 70Z. per ann. 



have one or two good fellows here whom you 
would be glad to know. 



No. CXXIV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Near Maybole, \^th October, 1791 . 
SIR, 

Accept of my thanks for your favour, with the La- 
ment on the death of my much-esteemed friend, and 
your worthy patron, the perusal of which pleased and 
atlected me much. The lines addressed to me are very 
flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to suppose 
(and a strong argument in favour of a future exist- 
ence) that when we see an honourable and virtuous 
man labouring under bodily infirmities, and oppressed 
by the frowns if fortune in this world, that there was 
a happier state beyond the grave ; where that worth 
and honour, which were neglected here, would meet 
witli their just reward ; and where temporal misfor- 
tunes would receive an eternal recompense. Let us 
cherish this hope for our departed friend, and moder- 
ate our grief for that loss we have sustained, knowing 
that he cannot return to us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife ; and with every good 
wish for the prosperity of you and your family, believe 
me at all limes, 

Your most sincere triend, 

JOHN WUITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 



FROM A. F, TYTLER, ESa. 

Edinburgh, 21th November, 1791 . 
DEAR SIR, 

Vou have much reason to blame me for neglecting 
till now to acknowledge the receipt of a most agreeable 
packet, containing Tne Whistle, a ballad : and The 
Z.rt//j,tH«; which reached me about six weeks ago in 
Loudon, from whence I am just returned. Your letter 
was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, as 
1 observed by the date, it had liin for some days. 
This was an additional reason forme to have answered 
t immediately on receiving it ; but the truth was, the 
bustle of buiiiiess, engasenienls, and confusion of one 
kind or another, in winch 1 I'uund myself immeised nil 



the time I was in London, absolutely put it out of mf 
power. But to have done with apologies, let me novr 
endeavour to prove myself in some degree deserving 
of the very flattering compliment ycu pay rae, by giving 
you at least a frank and candid, if it should not be a 
judicious, criticism on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle '.s, in my opinion truly 
excellent. The old tradition which you have taken up 
is the best adapted for a Bacchanalian composition ot 
any I ever met with, and you have done it full justice. 
In the first place, the strokes of wit arise naturally 
from the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
example, 

" The bands grew the tighter the more they were wet* 
" Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn." 
" Tho' Pate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
" So up rose bright Phcebus,— and down fell the knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in the dis- 
crimination of your heroes, and in giving each the sen- 
timents and language suitable to his character. And, 
lastly, you have much merit in the delicacy of the pane- 
gyric which you have contrived to throw on each of 
the dramatis personce, perfectly appropriate to his 
character. The compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt 
soldier, is particularly fine. In short, this composi- 
tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and I see 
not a line or word in it which 1 could wish to be al- 
tered. 

As to the Lament, I suspect from some expressions 
in your letter to me that you are more doubtful with 
respect to the merits of this piece than of the other ; 
and I own I think you have reason ; for although it 
contains some beautiful stanzas, as the first, " The 
wind blew hollow," &c. ; the fifth, " Ye Bcatter'd 
birds ;" the thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," 
&c. ; yet it appears to me faulty as a whole, and infe- 
rior to several of those you have already published in 
the same strain. My principal objection lies against 
the plan of the piece. I think it was unnecessary and 
improper to put the lamentation in the mouth of a fic- 
titious character, an aged bard. — It had been much 
better to have lamented your patron in your own per- 
son, to have expressed your genuine feelings for the 
loss, and to have spoken the language of nature, rather 
han that of fiction, on the subject. Compare this with 
your poem of the same title in your printed volume, 
hich begins, O thou pale Orb ; and observe what it 
is that forms the charm of that composition. It is that 
it speaks the language of truth and of nature. 'The 
change is, in my opinion injudicious too in this re»5«ct, 
that an aged bard has much less need of a patron and 
a protector than a.yoiingone, I have thus giyenyou, 
with much freedom, my oijinion of both the pieces. I 
should have made a very ill i-eturn to the compliment 
you paid me, if I had given you any other than ray 
genuine sentiments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from you when 
you find leisure ; and 1 beg you will believe me ever 
dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXVI. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the generous warmth 
and angelic purity of your youthful mind can have any 
idea of that moral disease under which 1 unhappily 
must rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a turpitude 
of the moral powers that may be called a lethargy of 
conscience — In vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, 
and rouses all her snakes : beneath the deadly fixed 
eye and leaden hand of Indolence, their wildest ire is 
charmed into the torpor of a bat, slumbering out the 
rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. Noth- 
ing less, Madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology— 
the bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, so 
strongly ain I ialei-fsled in Miss D 's fate and 



JO 



LETTERS. 



Welfare In the cerious business of life, amid its chances 
and changes ; that to make her the subject of a sil- 
ly ballaii, is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity hetween our 
wishes and our powers ! Wliy is the most generous 
wish to make others blessed, impotent and inefl'ectual 
— as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert? 
In my walks of life I have met with a few people to 
whom how gladly would 1 have said — " Gobe happy !" 
I know that your hearts have been wounded by the 
scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above 
you — or worse still, in whose liands are, perhaps, 
placed many of the comforts of your life. But there I 
ascend that rock. Independence, and look justly down 
on their littleness of soul. Make the worthless trem- 
ble under your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
your contempt ; and largely impart that happiness to 
others Which I am certain, will give yourselves so much 
pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful 
dream i* Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 
I find myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping 
one tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
fort to the friend 1 love > — Out upon the world I say 1, 
that its attairs are administered so ill ! They talk 
of reform ; — good Heaven what a reform would I make 
among the sons, and even the daughters of men !— 
Down immediately should go fools from the high places 
where misbegotten chance has perked them up, and 
through life should they skulk, ever haunted by their 
native insignificance, as the body marches accom- 
panied by its shadow. — As for a much more formida- 
ble class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
them ; — had I a world, there should not be a knave in 



Hut the hand that could give, I would liberally fill ; 
and I would pour delight on the heart that could kind- 
ly forgive and generously love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among men, compa- 
ratively tolerable — but there is a delicacy, a lender- 
derness, accompanying every view in which we can 
place lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at 
the rude, capricious distinctions of fortune. Wo- 
man is the blood royal of life : let there be slight 
degrees of precedency among them— but let them 
be (ill sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or 
wrong, 1 am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
nent feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, lHh Decemter 17S1. 
Many thanks to you, Madam, for your good news 
respecting the little floweret and the mother plant. I 
hope my poetic prayers have been heard, and will be 
answered up to ihe'warmest sincerity of their fullest 
extent i and then Mis. Henri will find her little dar- 
ling the representative of bis late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which, to 
a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many heroes 
of his truly illustrious line, and herself the mother 
of several 'soldiers needs neither preface nor apology. 



Scene— A Field of Battle— Time of the Day, Even- 
ing — the wounded and dying of tlu victorious Army 
are supposed to join in the following 

SOXG OF DEATH. 
Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 
Kow gay with the broad setting sun I 



Farewell loves and fricudships ; 
ties, 
Our race of existence :s run I 



re dear tAndMr 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave 

Thou strik'sl the poor peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious marlr, 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands. 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands—- 

O, who would not die with the brave .'" 



The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing 
verses, was looking over, with a musical friend, M'- 
Douald's collection of Highland airs, 1 was struck with 
one, an Isle of Shye tune, entitled Oran an ^oi^, or. 
The Song of Death, to the measure of which 1 have 
adapted my stanzas. I have of late composed two or 
three other little pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed 
moon, whose broad impudent face, now stares at old 
mother earth all night, shall have shrunk into a mod- 
est crescent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, 1 shall 
find an hour to trauscrtbe to you. A Dieu je vout 
commende. 



No. CXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 
You see my hurried life, Madam : I can only com- 
mand starts of time : however, 1 am glad of one thing j 
since I finished the other sheet, the political blast that 
threatened my welfare is overblown. I have corres- 
ponded with Commissioner Graham, for the Board 
had made me the subject of their animadversions : 
and now I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now as to these 

intormers, may the devil be let loose to but 

hold ! 1 was praying most fervently in my last sheet, 
and I must not so soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idle officious 
think what mischief they do by their malicious insinua- 
tions, indiscreet impertinence, or thoughtless blab- 
bings ! What a uitference there is in intrinsic worth, 
candour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — in all the 
charities and all the virtues, between one class of hn- 
I beings and another I For instance, the amiabls 
circle 1 so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall oj 

D , their generous hearts — their uncuntaminated, 

dignified minds— their informed ai)d polished under- 
standings — what a contrast, when comiiared — if such 
comparing were not downright sacrileg*; — with the 
of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the de- 
struction of an honest man that never offended him, 
and with a grin of satisfaction tee the unfortunate be- 
ng, his faithful wife and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin. 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two 
worthy fellows dining with me the other day, when 1 

th great formality, produced my whigmeleeiie cup, 
and told them that it had been a family-piece among 

* This is a little altered from the one iren in p. 83, 
of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



n 



the descendants of Sir William Wallace. This rous- 
ed audi an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bum- 
pering the punch romid in it ; and, by and by, never 
did your great ancestor lay a Suthron more complete- 
ly at rest, than for a limedid your cup my iwo friends. 
A-propos! this 18 the season of wishing. May God 
bless you, my dear friend ! and bless me, the humblest 
and sinceresl of your friends, by granting you yet 
many returns o' the season ! May all good things at- 
tend you and youri wherever they aie scattered over 
the earth I 



No. CXXIX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady to 
you, and a lady in the first rank of fashion, too. What 
a ta»k ! to you — who care no more for the herd of ani- 
mals called young ladies, than you do for the hord of 
animals called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, 
as an idiot painter that seems industrious to place 
staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too 
often tiirown in the dimmest shades Mrs. Riddle, 
who will take this letter to town with her, and send it 
to you, is a character that, even in yo ir own way as 
a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisi- 
tion to your acquaintance. The lady too is a votary 
of the muses ; and as 1 think myself somewhat of a 
judge in my own trade, I assure you tha. her verses, 
always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond 
the common run of the lady poetess of the day. She is 
a great admirer of your book; and, hearing me say 
that I was acquainted with you, she begged to be 
known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to 
our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way 
was, to desire her near relation, and your intimate 
friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while 
Bhe was there, and lest you might think of a lively West 
Imlian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often 
deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove 
that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in appre- 
ciating the lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing, 
a failing which you will easily discover as she seems 
rather pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much 
besets yourself ;—whei •! she dislikes or despises, she is 
apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she es- 
teems and respects. 

I will not present you with unmeaning compliments 
of the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes 
and most ardent prayers, that Fortune may never 
tlirow your Subsistence to the mercy of a knave, or set 
your character on the judgment of a fool ; but that, 
upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters s-hall say. Here lies a man who 
did honour to science ! and men of worth shall say, 
Here lies a mau who did honour to human nature I 



cxxx. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

tXith February, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of 
prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many 
counsellors! How infinitely is thy puddled headed, 
rattle headed, wrong-beaded round headed slave indeb- 
ted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the himin- 
ogs path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
Oenignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag 
wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the 
•imple copulation of units up to the hidden mysteries of 
fluxions : May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom 
which darts from thy sensorium stniight as the arrow 



of heaven, and brignt as the meteor of inspiration, may 
it be my portion, so that 1 may be less unworthy of the 
face and favour of that father of proverbs and master 
of maxims, that antipode of folly, and magnet among 
the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol! Amen I 
Amen I Vea, so be il ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing I 
From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my 
dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political here- 
sies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron- 
barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun! Sorely sighing in bitter- 
ness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- 
tion of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of 
the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's many 
hills •>• As for him, his works are perfect ; never did the 
pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputatioDi 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of 
my glimmerous understanding, purged from sensual 
appetites and gross desires, shine like the constellation 
of thy intellectual powers! As for thee, thy thoughts 
are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the un- 
hallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the 
pleasures of darkness pollute the sacred flame of thy 
sky descended and heaven-bound desires : never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded serene of 
thy cerulean imagination. O that like thine were the 
tenor of my life! like thine the tenorof my eonversation I 
then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy 
rejoice in my weakness! then should 1 lie down and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. May ihy pity 
and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wis- 
dom and mirror of moraUty ! thy devoted slave.! 



No. CXXXI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. ^ 

3d March, 1792. 
Since T wrote you the last lugrubrious sheet, I have 
had not time to write you farther. When I say that I 
had not time, that, as usual, means, that the three 
demands, indolence, business, and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as not to 
leave me a five minutes' fragment to take up a pen 



Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards 
with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest 
take up Thomson's songs. 1 dare say he thinks I have 
used him unkindly, and 1 must own with loo much ap- 
pearance of truth, A-propos .' Do you know the much 
admired old Highland air, called The .Sutor's Doch- 
terl It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
wiitten what 1 reckon one of my best songs to it. 1 
will send it to you as it was sung with great applause 
in some fast.ionable circles by Major Robertson of 
Lude, who was here with his corps. 



There is one commission that I must trouble you 
with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a 
departed friend, which vexes me much. I have gotten 
one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
make a very decent one ; and 1 want to cut my armo- 
rial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as inquire 
what will be the expense of such a business.' I do not 
know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for myself, so 
you know ! shall be chief of the name ; and, by cour» 
tesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to support. 

* Mr. Nicol. 
t This strain of irony was excited by a letter of Mr 
Nicol, containing good advice. 



113 



[.ETTERS. 



en. These, however, I do no*, intend having on my 
eeal. 1 am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, se- 
cundum artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and 
crook, saltier-wrise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath 
of the "colours, a wood-lark perching ou a sprig of bay 
tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes : round the top 
of the crest. Wood notes wild. ; at the bottom of the 
shield, in the usual place. Better a wee bush than nae 
bield. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean 
the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a Stock and 
Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the GentleShep- 
herd. By the by, do you know Allan ? He must be a 
man of very great genius — Why is he not more known .'' 
Has he no patrons .'' or do "Poverty's cold wind and 
crushing rain beat keen and'heavy" on him? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of that 
noblest pastoral in the world ; and dear as it was, 1 
mean, dear as to ray pocket, I would have bought it ; 
but I was told that it was printed and engraved for 
subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit 
genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunning- 
ham, is therein riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so ? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, 
I should be as generous as the day ; but as I have no 
reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any o'h- 
er man'S; I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird- 
lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his 
native poverty would have revolted. What has led 
me to this, is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan pos- 
sesses, and such riches as a nabob or government con- 
tractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual 
league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected 
merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit 
will richly repay it. 



No. CXXXII 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, SM August, 1792. 
Do not blame me for it Madam — my own conscience, 
hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, in watching 
and reproving my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c. has 
continued to blame and punish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for many fa- 
vours ; to esteem for much worth, and to the houest, 
kind, pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, and I 
hope and am sure of progressive, increasing friendship 
—as, for a single day, not to think of you— to ask the 
Fates what they are doing and about to do with my 
much-loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as 
they possibly can i 

Apropos ! (though how it is a-propos, T have not lei- 
sure to explain.) Do you know that I am almost in 
love with an acquaintance of yours .'' — Almost 1 said 
I — I am in love, souse ! over head and eats, deep as 
the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean ; 
but the word Love, owing to the intermingledoms of 
the good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing 
one's sentiments and sensations, 1 must do justice to 
the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, then, 
that the heart struck awe ; the distant, humble ap 
jiroach ; the rielight we should have in gazing upon 
and listening to a Messenger of heaven, appearing in 
all the unspotted purity of his celestial home, among 
»hfi coarse, polluted, farinferior sons of men, todeliver 
to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and 
their imaginations soar in transport— such, so delight- 
ing and so pure, were the emotion of my soul on meet- 
ing the other day with Miss L — B--, your neighbour, 
at M . Mr. B. with his two daughters accompa- 



nied by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries a few 
days ago, on their way to Kiigland, did me the honour 
of calling on me; on which I took my horse (though 
God knows 1 could ill spare the time,) and accompanied 
them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent th« 
day with them. "Pwas about nine, 1 think, when 1 
left them ; and. riding home, I composed the following 
ballad, of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is an old ballad 
beginning with 

" My honnie Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first 
Copy, " unaaninted, unanueal'd ;" as Hamlet says.- 

" saw ye bonnie Lesley," &c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to 
the east country, as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a 
fortnight. This world of ours, notwithstanding it has 
many good things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, 
that two or three people, who would be the happier the 
ottener they met together, are almost without excep- 
tion, always so pljced as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years of a 
man's life, is a very great " evil under the sun," which 
I do not recollect that Solomon has mentioned in his 
catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, 
where the worthy of this life will renew their former 
intimacies, with this endearing addition, that, " we 
meet to part no more !" 



"Tell us ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ?' 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the 
departed sons of men, but not one of them has ever 
thought fit to answer the question. " O that some 
courteous ghost would blab it out I" but it cannot be ; 
you and 1, my friend, must make the experiment by 
ourselves, and for ourselves. However, I am go con- 
vinced that an unshaken faith in the doctrines of reli- 
gion is not only necessary, by making us better men, 
but also by making us happier men, that I shall take 
every care that your little godson, and every little 
creature that shall call me lather, shall be taught 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at thi« 
wild place of the world, in the intervals of my labour 
of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, Vith September, 1792. 
No! I will not attempt an apology--Ainid all my 
hurry of business grinding the faces of the publican 
and the sinner on the merciless wheels of the Excise ; 
making ballads, and then drinking, and singing them ; 
and, over and above all, the corrscting (he ))ress-worlt 
of two different publications, still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. 1 might have done, as 1 
do at present, snatched an hour near " witching time 
of night," and scrawled a page or two. 1 might have 
congratulated my friend on his marriage, or I migiit 
have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour 
they have done me (though to do myself justice, I in- 
tended to have done both m rhyme, else I had done 
both long ere now.) Well, then, here is to your good 
health ! fur you must know I have set a nipperkin o( 
toddv by me, just by way of spell, to keep aw-y the 
meik'le hnrned Deil, or any of his suballeru imps wh« 
may be )u iheii- nightly routids. 



LETTERS. 



113 



But what shall! write to you ? "Tlie voice said, 
Cry! ai;d I said, What sliall' 1 cry ?"--0, thou ppiril ! 
whatever thou art, or wherever thou maktst thyself 
"isible '. be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an aiild 
thorn, in the dreary glen llirougli which the herd callan 
maun bicltei in iiisgloamin route frae the faulde ! tie 
thou a browi ie, set, at dead of night, to thy taslt by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the re- 
percussions of thy iron flail half atfriglit thyself aa 
thou performest the work of twenty of the sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of 
substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford 
or I'erry, in the starless night, mixing thy laugliing 
yell with the howling of the storm and. the roaring of 
the flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat ! 
Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal visiis 
to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur ; or performing 
thy mystic rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or taking 
thy Eland by the bedside of tlie villain, or the murder- 
er, portraying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dread- 
ful as the horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the 
wratli of incensed Deity ! Come, thou spirit ! but not 
in these horrid forms : come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations which thou breathesl round the wig 
sf a prating advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping gos- 
sip, while their tongues run at the light-horse gallop of 
clish-maclaver for ever and ever— come and assist a 
poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share 
half an idea among half a hmulred words ; to fill up 
four quarto pages, while he has not got one single sen- 
tence of recollection, information, or remark, worth 
putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, 1 feel the presence of supernatural assistance I 
circled in the embrace of my elbow-chair, my breast 
labours like the bloated Sibyl on her three footed stool, 
and like her too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, 
auspicious name I Tutor, friend, and finger-post in 
the mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of phy- 
sic ; and particularly in the sightless soarings of 
School Dioinityy who leaving Common Sense con- 
founded at his strength of pinion, Reason, delirious 
with eyeing his giddy flight ; and Truth creej)ing back 
into the bottom of her well, cursing the hour that ever 
she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of 
'i'heologic Visioi.— raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth. Discord ! a gloomy f-leaven aboveopening 
her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth part of 
the tithe of mankind ! and below, an inescapable and 
inexorable Hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the 
vast residue of mortals !! !" O doctrine! comforta- 
ble and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man I 
Ye sons and daughters o( ai'^iclxon, ye pauvres miser- 
abtes, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night 
yields no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nine- 
teen hundred thousand that your situation will mend 
in this world ;" so, alas ! the experience of the poor 
anil the needy too often affirms ; and, 'tis nineteen 
hundred thousand to on*', by the dogmas of ••••••••^ 

that you will be damned eternally iu the world to 
come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the 
most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than enough, 
of it. Only, by the by, will you, or can you tell nie, 
my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind 
has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the 
heart.' They are orderly : they may be just; nay, I 
have known them merciful: but still your children of 
sanctity move among their fellow-creatures, with a nos- 
tril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning filth ; in 
short, with a conceited dignity that your titled • • • > 
or any other of your Scottish lordlings of seven centu- 
ries' standing, display when they accidentally mix 
among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. 1 
remember, in my pluugh-boy days, 1 could not conceive 
it possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly 
man could be a knave. How ignorant are plough- 
boya! Nay, I have since discovered that a ^orf/y mo- 

man may be a ! But hold — Here's t'ye 

Bgain--thia rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit 
meag'.rum for scandal. 



Apropos ; How do you like, I mean really, like the 
[married hie.'' Ah! my friend, mafimony is quite a 
different thing from what your love-sick youths and 
sighing girls take it to be I But marriage, we are told, 
is appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with 
any of his institutions. 1 am a husband of oldersland- 
ing than you, and shall give you my ideas of the con- 
jugal state (en /lossani, you know I am no Latinisl : ie 
not conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke ?) Well, 
then the scale of good wifeship 1 divide into ten parts: 
Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, two ; Wit, one ; I'er- 
sonal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine 
limbs, graceful carriage (1 would add a fine waist too, 
but that is soon spoiled you know,) all ihese, one ; as 
for the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, a 
wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, Education, (I 
mean education extraordinary,) Family Blood, &c., 
divide the two remaining degrees among them as you 
please ; only remember that all these minor properties 
must be expressed by fractions, for there is not any 
one of them in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries— how I late- 
ly met with Miss L B , the most beautiful, 

elegant woman in the world — how 1 accompanied her 
and her father's family fifteen miles on their journey 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the 
works of God, in such an unequalled display of them — 
how, in galloping home at night, 1 made a ballad on 
her, of which these two stanzas made a part : 

Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonnie L , art divine. 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad helang thee 1 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " 1 canua wrang thee 1" 

— Behold all these things are written in the chronicle* 
of my imaginations, and shall be read by thee, my 
dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear 
friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before designed bosom- 
companion, be given the precious things brought forth 
by the sun, and the precious things brought forth by the 
moon, and the benignest influences of the stars, and 
the living streams which flow from the fountains o( life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever I Amen I 



No. CXXXIV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24th September, 1792, 
1 have tliis moment, my dear Madam, yours of the 
twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, your 
news, &c. are out of my head when I read and think on 

Airs. H 's situation. Good God! a heartwouun- 

ed, helpless youngwoman — in a stiange, foreign land, 
and that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, longing fur 
a comforter, but finding none — a mother's feelings too 
— but it is too much : He who wounded (He only can) 
may he heal !' 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition fc 
his family, • « • • I cannot say that 1 givB 
nim joy of his life as a farmer. ''I'ls, as a farmer pay- 
ad'eur, unconscionable rent, a curstd hfe ! As to 



inga. 



laird farmhig his own propejty ; sowing his own t( 

* This much lamented lady was gone to the south ol 
France with her infant son, where she died soon after 



14 



LETTERS. 



■n hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle weatlier, in 
gladness: knowing tlial uuiiecansay uulohim, " what 
dost thou !"— fattening hia herds ; shearing his flocks ; 
rejoicing at Christinas : and begetting suns and daugh- 
ters, until he be the venerated, gray-Uaired leader of a 
litlla tribe — 'tis a heavenly life! — But devil take tlie life 
ef reaping the fruits that another must eat 1 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing 
jne, when I in-dke my Ayrshire visit. 1 cannot leave 

Mrs. B until her nine months' race is run, which 

may perhaps be in tliree or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determined lo make me the patriarchal leader of a 
band. However, if Heaven will be so obliging as lo 
let me have tliem in proportion of three boys to one 
girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 1 hope, if 1 
am spared wiih ihem, to show a set of boys thai will do 
honour to my cares and name ; but I am not equal lo 
the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor : a girl 
should always have a fortune. Apropos ; your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely mastered his 
brother. Robert is indeed the miklesi, gentlest crea- 
ture I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, 
and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle upon a 
•ubject dear to our heart : You can excuse it. God 
bless you and yours I 



No. CXXXV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been written on the Death of Mrs. 
H , her daughter. 

I had been from home, and did not receive your let- 
ter until my return the other day. What shall 1 say 
to comfort you, my much-valued, much afflicted friend ! 
I can but grieve with you ; consolation 1 have none to 
offer, except that which religion liolds out to the chil- 
dren of ainiction — Children of affliction! — how just 
the expression ! and like every oilier family, they have 
matters among them, which they hear, see, and feel in 
a serious, all-important manner, of which the world 
has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks 
indifferently on, makes the passing remark, and pro- 
ceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam I who would wish for many years? 
What is it but lo drag existence until our joys gradual- 
ly expire, and leave us in a night of misery ; like the 
gloom which blots out the stars one by one, from the 
face of night, and leaves us without a ray of comfort in 
the howling waste 1 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon 
bear from me again. 



No. CXXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

< Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I shall be in Ayrshire, I think next week ; and, if at 
all possible, 1 sliail certainly, my much-esteemed friend, 
have the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop House. 



Alas, Madam I how se.dom do we meet in fchis world 
that we have reason to congralulate ourselves on ac- 
cessions of happiness ! 1 have not passed half the or- 
dinarjr term of an old man's 'ife, and yet I scarcely 
look over the obiiuary ol a newspaper, that I do not 
gee some names that I have known, and other ac- 
quaintances little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of lUe mortaUty of our kind makes 
us cast an anxious look in the dreadful abiss of uncer- 
tainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own 
Caith. Uut of how different an importance are the lives 



of different individuals f Nay, of what importance M 
one period oi the same life more than another .'' A few 
years ago, I could have lain down in the dust, " care- 
less of the voice of tlie morning;" and now not a few, 
and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing 
me and my exertions, lose boih their "staff and 
shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately 

got an addition, Mrs. B having giveii me a line 

girl since 1 wrote you. There is a charming passage 
in Thomson's JCdward and EleanoTa — 

" The valliant in himself, what can he suffer ? 

Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give 
you another from the same piece, peculiarly, alas 1 
too peculiarly apposite, my dear Madam, to your 
present frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, thatexultsi 
Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes. 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you mention 
Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, 
and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive 
or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbul^ent ex- 
istence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from his 
Alfred : 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself. 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you former- 
ly, as indeed when 1 write from the heart, 1 am apt to 
beguilty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, 
in the musical style ut expression, is much more bound- 
ed than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the 
former are extremely api to run into one another ; but 
in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes 
are much more sweet. I must still give you another 
quotation, which I am almost sure 1 have given you 
before, but 1 cannot resist the temptation. The subject 
is religion — speaking of its importance to mankind, 
the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our mo^'ning 

bright, 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when fi lends are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart. 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I see you are in for a double postage, so T shall e'en 
scribble out t'other sheet. We, in this country here, 
have many alarms of the reforming, or rather the re- 
publican spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, 
we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I a.m aplitcemaii, you know: a very humble one in- 
deed, Heaven ki;ows, but still so much so as to gag me. 
What my private sentiments arc, you will find out 
without au uilerpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view, and tlie 
other day, for a pretty Actresses's benefit-night, I wrote 
an Adilress, which 1 will give on the other page, called 
The Rights of Woman." 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criticism! ia 
person at Dunlop. 



' See Poems, p. 



LETTERS. 



115 



No. cxxxvir. 

TO MISS B***'*, OF YORK. 



MADAM. 



•ZUt March, 1792. 



Among many things for which I envy those hale, 
.ong hveil old fellows before the flood, is this in parti- 
cuiiir, that when they met with anybody after their 
own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, 
many happy meetings with them in afterlife. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fieet 
Ing existence, wheti you, now and then, in the Chup- 
lerof Accidents, meet an individnal whose acquaint- 
ance is a real acquisition, where all the prohaliilities 
against you, that you shall never meet with that valu- 
'ed character more. tJn the otlier hand, brief as this 
miserable being is, it ia none of the least of the miser- 
ies belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom 
you hate, or creature whom you desjiise, the ill run of 
the chances shall be so against you, iliat in the over- 
takings, turnings, and josllings of life, pop, at some 
unlucky corner eternally comes the wretch upon you, 
and will not allow your imagination or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the 
powc-s of darkness, 1 lake these to be the doings of 
that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known 
that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking 
down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is 
perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting 

Miss B ; how much I admired her abilities, and 

Valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought 
myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, 1 must entertain no hopes of the very 
real pleasure of meeting with you again. 

Miss U tells me that she is sending a packet to 

you, and 1 beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, 
though, to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere 
pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring 
with how much respectful esteem 1 have the honour to 
be, &c. 



No. CXXXVIII. 



€ 



TO MISS C***". 

August, 1793. 
MADAM, 

Some rather nnlooked-for accidents have prevented 
my doing my.ielf the honour of a second visit to Arbeig- 
iand, as 1 was so hospitably invited, and so positive- 
ly meant to have done. However, 1 still hope to 
have that pleasure before the busy months of harvest 
begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind of 
relurn for the jileasure I'have received in perusing a 
certain MSS. volume of poems in the possession of 
Captain Riddel. 'I'o repay one with an old snug, is a 
proverb, whose force, you, Madam, I know, will not 
allow. What is said of illustrious descent is, I btlieve 
equally true of a talent for poetry, none ever despised 
who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I 
am disposed to be melancholy. 'Phere is not among 
all the martyrologies that ever were penned, so rueful a 
narrative as the lives of the poetS. In the compara- 
tive view of wretches, the criterion ia not what they are 
doomed to suffer, bui how they are formed to bear.— 
Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagina- 
tion and a more delicate sensibility, which between 
them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of 
passions than are the usual lot of man ; implant in 
him an irresistible impulse ofsome idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing 
the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, 
watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny 
pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies— in 
short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall 
eternally jnislead him from the paths of lucre, and yoi 



curse him with a keener relish than any man living 
for the pleasures that lucre can |)urchase : lastly, fjll 
up the measure of his woes by bestowing on hira a 
spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have created 
a wight nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, 
Madam, 1 need not recouni the fairy pleasures the 
muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has 
in all ages been accused of misleuding mankind from 
the counsels of wisdom and the paths of prudence, in- 
volving them Indirticulties, baiting them with poverty, 
branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet where is the man but 
must own that all our happiness on earth is not wor- 
thy the name — tlial even the holy hermit's solitary 
prospect of paradisical bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun rising over a frozen region, compared 
with the many pleasures, the nameless raptures that 
we owe to the lovely tiueen of the heart of Man! 



No. CXXXIX. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESCl. 

December, 1793. 
SIR, 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our 
greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compli- 
ment In the manner In which I am going tp apply the 
remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I 
owed to any man. Here is Ker's account, and here 
are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
man — or woman either. But for these damned dirty, 
dog's-eared little pages,* I had done myself the honour 
to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the 
obligations your hospitality has laid me under ; the 
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man 
and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as 1 could ev. 
er make head againsi ; but to owe you money too, was 
more than 1 could face. 

1 think I once mentioned something of a collection of 
Scots songs I have some years been making : I send 
you a perusal of what 1 have got together. 1 could not 
conveniently spare them above flveor six days, and five 
or six glances of them will probably more than suffice 
you. A very few of them are my own. When you are 
tired of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the 
King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collec- 
tion in the world ; and 1 should be sorry ihat any unfor- 
tunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost 
me a good deal of jiaius. 



No. CXL. 

TO MRS. R*" 



Who w(LS to bespiMk a Pliy one evening at the Dum- 
fries Theatre. 

I am lliinkingto send my Address to some periodical 
publication, but it has not got your sanction, so pray 
look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear 
Madam, to give us. The Wonder, a Woman keeps a 
Secret .' to which pisase add. The UpoiU Child — you 
will highly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah I what an enviable creature you are I There 
now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are going 
to aparty of choice spirits— 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 

' * Scottish Bank Notes. 



116 



LETTERS. 



Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-paiiUing humour., grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do al- 
to remember to weep with them that weep, and pity 
your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 

To a Lady, in favour of a Player's Benefit. 

MADAM, 

You were so very good as to promise me to honour 
my friend with your presence on his benefit-night. 
That night is fixed for Pridiiy first ! the play a most 
interesting one ! The Way to keep him. I have the 
pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor 
is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage ; he is a poor and 
modest man: claims which from their very szVe/ice 
have the more forcible power on the generous heart. 
Alas, for pity ! that from the indolence of those who 
have the good things of this life in their gift, too often 
does brazen fronted importunity snatch that boon, the 
rightful due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the author and director of Na- 
ture, by far the most enviable is — to be able " to wipe 
av.'uy all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, 
sordid wretches are they, however chance may have 
loaded tbem with wealth, who go to their graves, to 
their magnificent mausoleuTns , with hardly the con- 
sciousness of having made one poor honest heart hap- 
py ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam, I came to beg, 
not to preach. 



No. CXLII. 

EXTRACT or A LETTER 

TO MR. . 

1794. 
T am extrem<>ly obliged to yon for your kind mention 
of my interests, in a letter viihich Mr. S*"* showed 
me. At present, my situation in life must be in a great 
measure stationary, at least for two or three years. 
The statement is this— I am on the supervisors' list ; 
and as we come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed of course— then, a Friend might be of ser- 
vice to me in getting me into a ptSce of the kingdom 
which 1 would like. A supervisor's income varies 
from about a hundred and twenty to two himdred a- 
year ; but the business is an incessant drndsjery, and 
would be nearly a complete bar to every species of lit- 
erary pursuit. The moment I am appointed super- 
visor ir. the common routine, 1 may be nominated on 
the Collector's list ; and this is always a business pure- 
ly of political patronage. A collectorship varies much 
from better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency on the 
list, and have, besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a de- 
cent comi)etence, is the summitof my wishes. It would 
be the prudish affectation of silly prid^ in me, to say 
that I do not need, or would not he indebted to a po- 
litical friend ; at the same time, Sir, 1 by no means lay 
my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situ- 
ation on your benevolence. If, in my progress in 
life, an opening should occur where the good ofSces of 
a gentleman of your public character and political 
consequence might bring me forward, I will petition 
/our goodness with the same frankness and sincerity 
u I now do myself the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. R"*". 

DEAR MADAM, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight ; but as i 
edged up to your box-door, the first object which gi-eet- 
ed my view was one of those lobster-coaled pup- 
pies sitting like another dragon, guardingtheHesperiaii 
fruit. On the conditions and capitulations yoj so 
obligingly ofier. I shall certainly make my weather 
beaten rustic phiz a part of your boxfurnitpre on 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of the 
visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments, which 
insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer 
toyourshnne — a shrii;8, how far exalted above such 
adororatioi\— permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, 
to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heartand an in- 
dependent mind ; and to assure you that 1 am, thou 
most amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, 
thine, kc. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

1 will wait on you my ever-valued friend, bu,' wheth- 
er in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a pe- 
riod of our cursed revenue business, and may probably 
keep me employed with my pen until noon. Pine em- 
ployment for a poet's pen ! There is a species of the 
human genius that I call the gin-horse class: what 
enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round 
they go — Muiidell's ox, that drives his cotton-mill, is 
their exact prototype— v/ithout an idea or wish be- 
yond their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and 
contented ; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, 

a d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 

enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the 
other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
.luttering round her tenement, like a wild finch cau?hl 
amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust invo a 
gage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the 
Hebr-ew sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And be- 
hold on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall 
not prosper!" If my resentment is awakened, it is 
sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and if— 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors 



No. CXLV. 



TO THE SAME. 



I have this moment got the song from S***, and 
I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good deal. 
It shall be a iessou to me how 1 lend him any thing 
again. 

I have sent you Werter, tnilyhappy to haveany, the 
smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I was a 

W ; and that once froze the very lile-blood of my 

heart. Your reception of me was such, that a wretch 
meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce the 
sentence of death on him, could only have eij^'ied my 
feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, and nev 
er more shall write or speak on it. 



LETTERS. 



117 



One tiling t shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. 
■— ^a higher tribute of esteem, and appreciate her 
amiable -Arorlh more truly, than any man whom 1 have 
seen approach her. 



No. CXLV^I. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had 
a spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as 
oftim disavowed it: even, perhaps, while your opinions 
Were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
any /Ajn^ estrange me from a friend such as you? — 
No ! To-morrow 1 shall have the honour of waiting on 
you. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most accomplish- 
ed of women : even with all thy little caprices. 



No. CXLVII. 

to the same. 
Madam, 

I return your common-place book ; I have perused it 
with much pleasure, and would have continued my cn- 
ticisms ; but as it seems ihe critic has forftiled your 
esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 

Tf it is true that " offences come only from the 
heart," before you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, 
and prize you, as the most accomplished of women, and 
the first of friends — if these are crimes, I am the most 
offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency 
of friendly confidence, now to find cold neglect and con- 
temptuous scorn — is a wrench that my heart can ill 
bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good 
luck, that while de haut-en-bas rigour may depress an 
unott'ending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to 
rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, though 
It cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opi- 
ate to blur their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities ; the 
most sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle 
heart and amiable manners ; and the most fervent wish 
and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, ) have 
the honour to be, Madam, your most devoted, humble 
servant. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESa. 

you know that, among other high dignities, you have 
the honour to be my supreme court of critical judica- 
ture, from which there is no appeal. I enclose you a 
song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going 
to give you the history of it. Do you know, that among 
much that 1 admire in the characters and manners of 
those great folks whom I have now the honour to call 

my acquaintances, the O family, there is nothing 

charms me more than Mr. O's. unconcealable attach- 
ment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, my 
dear Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. A fine 
fortune, a pleasing exterior, selfevident amiable dis- 
positions, and an ingenuous upright mind, and that 
informed too, much beyond the usual run of young fel- 
lows ot his rank and fortune : and to all this, such a 
woman ! — but ot her 1 shall say nothing at all, in des- 
pair o saying any thingadequate. In my song, I have 
endeavoured to do justice to what would be his feel- 
ings, ou seeing, iu the scene I have drawn, the habita- 



tion of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my 
performance, I in my first fervour, thought of sending 

it to Mrs. O ; but on second thoughts, perhaps 

what I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, 
might, from the well known character of poverty and 
poetry, be construed into some modification or other of 
that servility which my soul abhors." 



No. CXLIX. 



MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could 
have made me trouble you with this letter. Except my 
ardent and just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, 
every sentiment arising in your breast, as 1 put pen to 
paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed 
with the friend of my soul and his "amiable connex» 
ions I the wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, 
for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wan- 
derings of a weary world ! and the cutting reflection of 
all that 1 had most unfortunately, though most unde- 
servedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, era 
it took its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary an- 
guish.— However, you also may be offended with some 
zm^uied improprieties of mine ; sensibility you know I 
possess, and sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been raised 
against me, is not the business of this letter. Indeed 
it is a warfare I know not how to wage. The powers 
of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; 
but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, 
or ward oft' the unthinking mischief of precipitats 
folly.'' 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam ; and of 
your sister Mrs. — , through your means. You know- 
that, at the wish of my late friend, I made a collectioa 
of all my trifles in verse which 1 had ever written. 
There are many of them local, some of them puerile 
and all of them, unfit for the public eye. As I have 
some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live 
when the hate of those " who watch for my halting," 
and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident 
has made my superiors, will, with themselves, begone 
to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of those rhanuscripts. Will Mrs. have the 

goodness to destroy them, or return them to me ? As 
a pledge of friendship they were bestowed ; and that 
circumstance indeed was all their merit. Most un- 
happily for me, that merit they no longer possess ; 

and 1 hope that Mrs. 's goodness, which 1 well 

know, and ever will revere, will not refuse this favour 
to a man whom she once held in some degree of esti- 
mation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the honour to be, 
Madam, &c. 



No. CL. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

i5th February, 1794- 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased i Canst 
thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed on a sea o( 
troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, 
and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? 
Canst thou give to a frame, tiembliogly alive as the 

* The song enclosed was that, given in Poems, page 
112, beginning, 

O, xeat ye wha's in yon town? 



118 



LETTERS. 



torturei of suspense, the stability and liardihood 
the rock that braves the blast i If thou canst not ( 
the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in n 
miseries with thy inquiries after me ? 



For these two months, I have not been able to lift a 
pen. My constitution aiid frame were ab origine, 
bUisted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, 
which poisons my existence. Of late, a number of do- 
mestic vexations, and gome pecuniary share in the ru- 
in of these • • * « « times ; losses which, though tri- 
fling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated 
me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a 
reprobate spirit listsning to the sentence that dooms 
it to peraition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation * I have 
exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart 
at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments 
and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Is- 
cariot preachmg the Gospel : he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its 
native incorrigibility. 



Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, 
amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The one 
is composed of the different modifications of a certain 
noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names 
of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The oJAer is made 
up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however 
the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, 1 am convinced, original and component 

farts of the human soul : those senses of the mind, if 
njay be allowed the expression, which connect us 
with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities — an 
all-powerful, and equally beneficent God ; and a world 
to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives 
the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the 
field : — the last pours the balm of comfort into the 
wounds which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you 
and 1 ever talked on the subject of religion at all. 1 
know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty 
^w, to lead the iindiscerning many ; or at most as an 
Uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know 
any thing of, and with which they are fools if they give 
themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a 
man for his irreligion any more than I would fur his 
want of a musical ear. 1 would regret that he was 
shut out from what, to me and to others, were such 
superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son 
should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and 
taste, 1 shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let 
me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is 
J<ust now running about my desk, will be a man of a 
melting-, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, 
delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. 
Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, 
to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxu- 
riance of the spring ! himself the while in the blooming 
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and 
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift 
delightmg degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, 
until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the 
glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, 

" These as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God.— The roiling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of that charm- 
ing hyn.n. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights : 
and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men 
are superior, not to say equal, to them.' And they 
have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue 
stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to 
bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and approving God. 



No. CLI. 

TO MRS. R'"'. 

Supposes himself to be writing from the Dead to tha 

Living. 
MADAM, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever received 
from this netherworld. I write you from the regions 
of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time 
and manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly 
know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your loo hospitable man 
sion ; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried and 
sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this in 
fernal confine for the space of ninety nine years, elev- 
en months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account 
of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under 
your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed, of pitiless furze, 
with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn ; while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, 
and old, and cruel, his name I think is Recollection, 
with a whip of scorpiotis, forbids peace or rest to ap- 
proach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the 
good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it would be an allevia- 
tion to my torments. For this reason I trouble vou 
with this letter. To the men of the company 1 will 
make no apology. Your husband, who insisted on ray 
drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me | 
and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you. Madam, I have much to apolagize. Your 
good opinion 1 valued as one of the greatest acquisi- 
tions [ had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to 
forfeit it. There was a Miss I———, too, a woman of 
fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do make, 

on my part, a miserable d d wretch's best apology 

to her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me 

the honour to be prejudiced in my favour : — this makes 
me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all for- 
giveness. To all the other ladies please present my 
humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petilioii 
for their gracious pardon. O, all ye powers of decen- 
cy and decorum! whisper to them, that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary— that an intoxicated 
man is the vilest of beasts ; that it was not my nature 
to be brutal to any one ; that to be rude to a woraaa, 
when in my senses, was> impossible with me—but" 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell-hounds that 
ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! 
spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, 
Madaui, 

Your humble slave. 



No. CLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th December, 17S5. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, g'oomv, 
sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dulness herself 
could wish, I shall not drawl oat a heavy letter with a 
number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only 
one 1 shall mention, because I know you will sympa- 
thize in if. these four months, a sweet little girl, my 
youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week 
or less, threatened to terminate her existence. There 
had much need be many pleasures ai.nexed to the states 
of husband and father, for God knows, they have many 
peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, 
sleepless hours, these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpleos little folks; me and ray exertions all 
their stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the life of 



LETTERS. 



19 



iTiRn nanj; ! Tf I am nipt ofT at the command iif Fate, 
even in all the vignurof maiihooLl as I am — snch things 
happen every day — gracious God 1 what would become 
of my little flock ! 'Tis here that 1 envy your people of 
fortune 1 A father on his death-bed, taking an ever- 
lasting leavecf his children, has indeed wo enough; 
but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and 
daughters independency and friends; while I — but 
I shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on the sub- 
ject 1 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing 
with the old Scots ballad— 

" O that I h%d ne'er been married 

1 would never had nae care : 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie ! evermair. 



Crowdie ! ance !. crowdie twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony ma'ir, 

Ve'll crowdie a' my meal away. 



December 24 Ih. 
M'e have had a brilliant theatre here this season; 
only, as all other business has, it experiences a stagna- 
tion of trade from the epidemical complaint of the 
country, want of cash. I mention our theatre mere- 
ly to liig in an occasional Address which J wrote for 
the benefit night of one of the actresses, and which is as 
follows :* 

%jth, Christmas Morning. 
This my much-loved friend is a morning of wishes ; 
accept mine — so heaven hear me as they are sincere! 
that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction 
know yon not ! in the charming words of my favourite 
anthor, The Mnnof Feeling,'' May the Great Spirit 
bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the ar- 
row that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cow- 
per .' Is not the Task a glorious poem? The reli- 
gion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistic di- 
vinity, is the religion of God*nd Nature; the religion that 
exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your 
Zeluco, in return for mine ? Tell me how you like my 
marks and notes through the book. I would not give a 
farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it 
with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my 
letters. I mean those which I first sketched in a rough 
draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking 
over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet at the same lime I did not 
care to destroy ; I discovered many of these rude 
sketches, and have written them out, in a bound MSS. 
for my friend's library. As 1 wrote always to you the 
rhapsody of the moment, T cannot find a single scroll to 
you, except one, about the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I 
would send you a perusal of my book. 



No. CLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, QJOtk December, 1793. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London 
jo'irneyof yours. In the first place, when your last to 
me reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did 

' Tbe Address ia given in p. 153, of the Poems. 



not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the 
next place, 1 thought you would certainly take thi» 
route ; and now 1 know not what is become of you al 
all. God grant that it may find you and yours in pros- 
pering health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Mil- 
ler, 1 shall every leisure hour, take up the pen, and 
gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poesy, ser- 
mon or song. In this last article I have abandoned of 
late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publica- 
tion of Scottish songs which is making its appearance 
in your great metrepolis, and where 1 have the honour 
to preside over the Scottish verse as no less a person- 
age than Feter 1 indar does over the English. 1 wrote 
the following for a favourite air. See the Song enti- 
tled, Lord Gregory, Poems, p. 86, 

December 29lh. 
Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to 
act in the capacity of supervisor here ; and 1 assure 
you, what with the load of business, and what with 
that business being new to me, I could scarcely have 
commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had 
you been in town, much less to have written you an 
epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and 
during the illness of the present incumbent; but I 
look forward to an early period when 1 shall be ap- 
pointed in full form ; a consummation devoutly to 
be wished ! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's day is now my date) 
of wishing ; and mine are most fervently olTered up for 
you ! May life to you be a positive blessing while it 
lasts for your own sake ; and that it may yet be great- 
ly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the 
sake of the rest of your fiitnds! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately J was a boy ; but t'other 
day 1 was a young man ; and I already begin to feel 
the rigid fibre and stifl'ening joints of old age coming 
last o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and, 
I fear, a few vices of manhood, still 1 congratulate my- 
self on having had, in early days, religion strongly im- 
pressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one 
as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he be- 
lieves ; but I look on the man, who is firmly persuaded 
of infinite Wisdom and Goodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance that can happen in hia 
lot — I felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- 
tion for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure 
stay in the hour of difficulty, troub'.?, and distress ; 
and a never-falling anchor of hope, when he looks be- 
yond the grave. 

January 12th. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend 
the Doctor, long ere this. 1 hope he is well, and beg 
to be remembered to him. I have just been reading 
over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
his View of Society and Manners ; and still I read it 
with delight. His humour is perfectly onginai— it is 
neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, 
nor of any body but Dr. Moore. By the by, you have 
deprived me of Zeluco ; remember that, when you are 
disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among 
the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting 
in his last publication.* 



No. CLIV. 

TO MRS. R****. 

20«^ January, 1796. 
1 cannot express my gratitude to you for allowii^ 
me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. In fact I nevrf 

* Sdward. 



120 



LETTERS. 



met with a booK that bewitched me so much ; and T, as 
a member of the library, must warmly feel the obliga- 
tion you have laid us under. Indeed to me, the obliga- 
tion is stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety ; as Aiiac/iarsis is au indispensable desideratum 
to a son of the Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's card, 
:s 1 think, flown from me for ever. 1 have not been 
able to leave my bed to day till about an hour ago.— 
These wickedly unlucky advertisements 1 lent (I did 
■wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest 
of him. 

The Muses have not quite forsaken me. The fol- 
lowing detached stanzas I intend to interweave in 
some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

31s2 January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two packets in 
my debt — what sin of ignorance I havu committed 
against so highly valued a friend I am utterly at a loss 
to guess. Alas ! Madam ! ill can I afford, at th' 
time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my 
pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of af 
niction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so 
rapidly, as to pufit out of my power to pay the last d 
ties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that 
•hock, when I became myself the victim of a most se- 
vere rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; 
until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to 
have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across 
my room, and once indeed have been before my own 
door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies tie visual ray, 
Religion hails the dTear, the untried nigbt, 

And shuts, for e /er shuts, life's doubtful day ! 



No. CLVI. 

TO MRS. R**** 
Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assem- 
bly on that day to show his loyalty, 

4tfi June, 1796. 
am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- 
pable of showing my loyally in any way. Racked as I 
am with rheumatisms, 1 meet every face with a greet- 
ing, like that of Balak to Balaam — " Come, curse me 
Jacob ; and come, defy me Israel!" So say 1 — come, 
curse me that east wind : and come, defy me the 
north ! Would you have me in such circumstances, 
copy yiu out a love song ? 



I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but I will not 
be at the ball. Why should I! "Man delights not 
me, nor woman either .•""' Can you supply me with 
the song. Let us all be unhappy together — do if you 
can, and oblige lepauvre miserable. 

R. B, 



No. CLVIT. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
Brow, Seabathing Quarters, 1th July, 1796. 
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I received yours here this moment, and am indeed 
highly flattered wi-ih the approbation of the literary 
circle you mention ; a literary circle inferior to none 
in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, 1 fear the 
Toice of the bard will -.oou be htard among you no 



I more ? For these eight or ten months I have beer 
ailing, sometimes bedlast, and sometimes not ; but 
these last three months, I have been tortured with .in 
excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me \a 
nearly the last stage. You actually would not know 
me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, at(d so feeble as 
occasionally to need help from my chair! my spirits 
fled! fled! — but I can no more on the subject — only 
the medical folks tell me that my last and only chance 
is bathing, and country quarters, and riding. — The 
deuce of the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 50/. — 
What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
self, and keep a horse in country quarters — with a wife 
and five children at home, on 35/..' 1 mention this, 
because I had intended to beg yWur utmost interest, 
and that of all the friends you can muster, to move 
our Commissioners of Excise to grant me the lull sala- 
ry— I dare say you know them all personally. It they 
do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit 
truly enpoete, if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent yoa one of the songs ; the other my 
memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy 
here ; but I shall be at home soon, when 1 will send it 
to you. A-propos to being at home, Mrs. Burns 
threatens in a week or two to add one more to my pa- 
ternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend 
shall be introduced to the world by the respectable de- 
signation of ^/e^anrfcr Cmmirsgham Bums. My last 
was Jajnes Glerjcnirn, so you can have no objecliou to 
the company of nobility. Farewell ! 



No. CLVIII. 



TO MRS. BURNS. 



MY DEAREST LOVE, 



Brow, Tliursday. 



I delayed writing until I could tell you what efTect 
sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- 
tice to deny that it ha? eased my pains, and I think, 
has strengthened me ; but my appetite is still extreme- 
ly bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and 
rnilk are the only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. 
My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to 
all the children. I will see you on Sunday. Your af« 
fectionate husband. R. B. 



No. CLIX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Brow, 12/A July, 1796. 
MADAM, 

I have written you so often without receiving any 
answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for 
the circumstances in which I am. An illness which 
has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily 
send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller re- 
turns. Your friendship, with which for many years 
you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. 
Your conversation, and especially your correspond- 
ence, were at once highly entertaining and instruc- 
tive. With what pleasure did 1 use to break up the 
seal I The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to 
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!!* R. B. 

• The above is supposed to be the last production of 
Robert Burns, who died on the 21st of the month, nine 
days afterwards. He had, however, the pleasure of 
receiving a satisfactory explanation of bis friend's si- 
lence, and an assurance of the continuance of her 
friendship to his widow and children ; an assurance 
that has been amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her letters to 
him were destroyed by our Bard about the tirne that 
this last was written. He did not foresee that his own 
letters to her were to appear in print, nor conceive the 
disappointment that will be fell, that a few of this ex- 
cellent lady's have not served to enrich and adorn the 
collection. £. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



BIR. GEORaS THOIVESON. 



PREFACE. 



THE remaining part of this Volume, consists pnn- 
eipally of the Correspondence between i\Jr. Burns 
and Mr. Thomson, on the subject of the beautiful 
Work projected and executed by the latter, the na- 
ture of which is explained in the first number of the 
following geries.* 'i'he undertaking of Mr. Thomson, 
is one in which the Public may be congratulated in 
various points of view ; not merely as having collected 
the finest of the Scottish songs and airs of past times, 
but as having given occasion to a number of original 
songs of our Bard, which equal or surpass the former 
efforts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, 
if we mistake not, may be safely compared with the 
lyric poetry of any age or country. The letters of 
Mr. Burns to Mr. Thomson include the songs he pre- 
sented to him, some of which appear in different 
stages of their progress ; and these letters will be found 
lo exhibit occasionally his notions of song-writing, and 
his opinions on various subjects of taste and criticism. 
These opinions, it will be observed, were called forth 
by the observations of his correspondent, Mr. Thom- 
son ; and without the letters of this gentleman, those 
of Burns would have often been unintelligible. He has 
tl erefore yielded to the earnest request of the Trus- 
tees of the family of the poet, to suffer them to appear 
in their natural order; and, independently of the 
illustration they give to the letters of our Bard, it is 
not to oe doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure 
them a reception from the public, far beyond what 
Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him to suppose. 
The whole of this correspondence was arranged for 
the press by Mr. Thomson, and has been printed with 
little addition or variation. 

To avoid increasing tae bulk of the work unneces- 
sarily, we have in general referred the reader for the 
Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and 
have given the verses entire, only when they differ in 
some respects from the adopted set. 

• This work is entitled. " A Select Collection of 
original Scottish Airs for the Voice : to which are 
added Introductory and Concluding Symphonies and 
Afccompaniments for the I'iano Forte and VioUn by 
Pleyel and Kozeluch : with select and characteristic 
Verses, by the most admired Scottish Poets, Sec." 



N 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September, 1792. 
SIR, 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or two, 
employed many leisure hours in selecting and collating 
the most favourite of our national melodies for pubft 
cation. We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeabl 
composer living, to put accompaniments to these, an i 
also to compose an instrumental prelude and conclu 
sion to each air, the better to fit them for concerts 
both pubUc and private. To render this work per 
feet, we are desirous to have the poetry imprcted 
wherever it seems unworthy of the music, and that i' 
is so in many instances, is allowed by every one con- 
versant with our musical collections. The editors oi 
these seem in general to have depended on the music 
proving an excuse for the verses : and hence, some 
charming melodies are united to mere nonsense and 
doggerel, while others are accommodated with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
company. To remove this reproach would be an easy 
task to the author oi The Cotter's Saturday Night; 
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hop« 
he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we 
shall be enabled to present the public with a col- 
lection infinitely more interesting than any that hag 
yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of taste, 
whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
companiments, or characteristic verses. — We will 
esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, 
besides paying any reasonable price you shall please 
to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consi- 
deration with us, and we are resolved to spare neither 
pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me frank- 
ly, then, whether you will devote your leisure to 
writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to the par- 
ticular melodies which 1 am prepared to send you. 
A few songs, exceptionable only in some of their verses, 
I will likewise submit to your consideiation ; leaving 
it to you, either to mend these, or to make new songs 
in their stead. It is superfluous to assure you that I 
have no intention to displace any of the sterling old 



123 



LETTER 



^ongs ; those only will be removed, which appear quite 
tiUy, or absolutely indecent. Kveii these shall ail be 
examined by Mr. B'lrns, and if hn is of opinion that 
any of them are deserving of the music, in such cases 
110 divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to be for- 
given for the liberty 1 have trikiir. in addressing you, I 
am, Willi great esteem, Sir, j<jjr most obedient hum- 
ble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

Dumfries, I6th September, 179Q. 
8IR, 

I have jnst this moment got your letter. As the 
request you maltrj me will positively add to my enjoy- 
ments in comj,!ying with it, I shall enter into your 
undertaking with all the small portion of abilities 1 
have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse 
of enthusiasm. Only don't hurry me: "Deil tak the 
hindmost," is by no means the cii de guerre of my 
muse. Will you, as 1 ain inferior to none of you in 
enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of 
old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have cheer- 
fully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me 
have a list of your airs, with the first line of the 
printed verses you intend for them, that I may have 
an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may 
occur to me. ' You know 'lis in the way of my trade : 
Btill leaving you, gentlemen, ihe undoubted right of 
publishers, to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for 
your own publication. Afiropos ! if you are for 
English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the 
matter. Whetlier in the simplicity of the ballad, or 
the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please my- 
self in being allowed at least a sjirinkliug of our native 
tongue. English verses, particularly the works of 
Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligi- 
ble. Tweedside—Ah, the poor sJiepherd's moumjul 
/ate— Ah, Chloris could I now but sit, &c. you cannot 
mend ; but such insipid stuff as. To Fanny fair could 
I imparl, &c. usually set to The Mill Mill O, is a dis 
grace to the collection in which it has already appear- 
ed, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will 
have the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, if 1 am 
called on for my strictures and amendments — I say, 
"unendraents : for I will not alter sxcept where I my- 
self at least think that I mend. 



As to any remuneration, you may think my songs 
either above or below price : for they shall absolutely 
be the one or the oiher. In the honest enthusiasm with 
which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, 
wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution 
of soul ! A proof of each of the songs that T compose 
or amend, 1 shall receive as a favour. In the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Gude speed the wark !" 
I am, 8ir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for wishing 
mr iuterfereuce to be known as little as possible. 



No. in. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, I3th October, 1792. 
DEAR SIR, 

I received, with much satisfaction, your pleasant 
»nd obliging letter, and I return ray warmest acknow- 
ledgments tor the enthusiasm wiih which you have en- 
Uired into our ■inder'.f.kiut- Wc have f^ow no doubt 



of being able to p oduce a collection highly deserrlog 
of public attention iu all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses that 
have merit, very eligible, wherever new verses are 
necessary ; because the i^nglish becomes every year 
more and more the language of Scotland ; but if you 
mean that no English veisis. except those by Scotiisn 
authors, ought to be a hni ted, ! am half inclined to 
difler from you. 1 should consider it unpardonable to 
sacrifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to make 
room for English verses; but if we can select a few 
excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill-provided 
airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary pa- 
triotism to reject such, merely because the authors 
were borii south of the Tweed? Our sweet air, My 
Nannie 0, which in the collections is joined to the 
poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, begin- 
ning, Wtnle some for pleasure pawn their health, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, O, Nancy 
will thou go with me, that one would think he wrote it 
on purpose for the air. However, it is not at all our 
wish to confine you to English verses; you shall freely 
be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, as you 
elegamly express it : and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse may be, she 
may always be decent. Let her not write what beau- 
ty would blush to speak, nor wound that charming 
dehcacy which forms the niosl precious dowry of our 
daughters. I do not conceive the song to be the most 
proper vehicle for willy and brilliant conceits; sim- 
plicity, 1 believe should be its prominent feature ; but, 
iu some of our songs, the writers have confounded 
simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity ; although 
between the one and the other, as Ur. t3eattie welt 
observes, there is as great a ditference as between a 
plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. The hu- 
morous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to 
our ariless melodies , and more interesting, indeed, m 
all songs, than the most pointed wit, daizhug descrip- 
tions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, 1 send you eleven (A 
the songs, for which it is my wish to substitute others 
of your writing. I shall soon transmit the rest, and, 
at the same time, a prospectus of ihe whole collection : 
and you may believe we will receive any hints thai 
you are so kind as to give for improving the work, 
with the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

1 remain, dear Sir, &c. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in your 
ideas of songs and ballads. 1 own that your criticisms 
are just ; the songs you specify in your hst have all, 
bat one, the faulls you remark in them ; but who shall 
mend the matter 1 Who shall rise up and say— Go to, 
I will make a better ? For instance, on reading over 
the Lea-rts, I immediately set about trying my hand 
on it, and, after all, 1 could make nothing more of it 
than the following, which Heaven knows is poor 
enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star. 

Tells bughtin time is near my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks* 

Wi' dew hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the ba irig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. 
My ain kind dearie O. 



• For " scented tirks 
.udi." E. 



in some copies, " birbM 



I^LT'IERS. 



123 



Ahho' the night were ne'er sae wild,* 

And 1 were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's 
ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. It is besides, per- 
haps the most beautiful ballad in the English language. 
Hut let me remark to you, that, in the sentiment and 
style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, 
a something that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay peculiarly 
apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honour, for 
lliis reason alone, 1 am of opinion (but, as 1 told you 
before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve, 
or reject, as you pleasej that my ballad of Nannie O, 
might perhaps, do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of taking my verses. 1 have long 
ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the 
business of authorship ; and have nothing to oe pleased 
or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my 
verses. Though you should reject one half of what 1 
give you, 1 shall be pleased with your adopting the 
other lialf, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the name of 
the river is horridly prosaic. 1 will alter it, 

" Behind you hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of 
the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modu- 
lation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on 
this business ; but 1 have just now an opportunity of 
conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an expense 
that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments 
to honest Allan, Good be wi' ye, &c. 

Friday night. 



Saturday 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning 
before my conveyance goes away, 1 will give you Nan- 
nie O, at length. iS'ee l^oems p. 61. 

Your remarks on Ewe-bughts, Marion, are just : 
■till it has obtained a place among our more classical 
Scottish Songs and what with many beauties hi its 
composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you 
will not find it easy to supplant it. 

lu my early years, when 1 was thinking of going to 
the West indies, I took the following farewell of a 
dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the 
merits of Ewe-bughts ; but it will fill up this page. 
You must know, that all my earher love-songs were 

* In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, instead 
of wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the manu- 
scripts, probably written afterwards, wet was changed 
into wild ; evidently a great improvement. The lovers 
might meet on the lea-rig, "although the night were 
ne'er so wild," that is, although the summer wind 
blew, the sky lowered, and the thunder murmured ; 
Buch circumstances might render their meeting still 
more interesting. But if the night were actually wet, 
why should they meet on the lea-rig ? On a wet night 
the imagination cannot contemplate their situation 
there with any complacency. — Tibullus, and, after him, 
Hammond, has conceived a happier situation for lov- 
ers on a wet nvght. Probably Burns had in his mind 
the verse of an old Scottish Song, in which wit and 
uieary are naturally enough conjoined. 

" When my ploughman comes hame at ev'.i 

He's often wet and weary ; 
Cast ofl' the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed my deary." I 



the breathings of ardent pissioii : and though it might 
have been easy in after-times to have given the«i a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, ana 
who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced 
the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully in- 
scribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as 
they say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

See Poems, p. 84 . 

Galla n'ater, and Auld Rob Mirris, I think, will 
most probably be the next subject of my musings. 
However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms 
with equal frankness. My wish is not to stand aloof, 
the uncomplying bigot of opmiatrele, but cordially to 
join issue with you ia the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Nove^nber Stk, 1792. 
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your 
collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid 
you will find more difiic'ilty in the undertaking than 
your are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in 
many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting sylla- 
bles to the emphasis, or what 1 would call the feature 
notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, 
in the air. My v^ij'e'a a wanton wee thing, if a few 
lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all 
you can expect. 'I he following were made extempore 
to it, and though, on further study, 1 might give you 
something more profound, yet it might nut suit the 
light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 

.See Poems, p. 34. 

I have just been looking over the Collier's bonnie 
Dockter ; and if the following rhapsody, which I com- 
posed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, 
Miss , as she passed through this place to Eng- 
land, will suit your taste belter than the Collier Laa* 
sie, fall on and welcome. 

saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

.S-ee Poeii 



p. 84. 



I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic 
airs until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, 
a greater effort. However, they are all put into your 
hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
one vessel to honour and another to dishonour. Fare 
well, &c. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing Vie Sons; on Highland Mary 
See Poems, p. Ho. 

nth November, 1792. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I agree with you that the song, Katherine Ogie, ii 
very poor stufl', and unworthy, altogether unworthy, 
of so beautiful an air. 1 tried to mend it, but the 
awkard sound Ogie recurring so often in the rhyme 
spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the 



:84 



LETTERS. 



ptcce. The foregoing song pleases myself ; I think it is 
in my happiest mauner ; you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. 'I'lie subject of tlie song is one of 
the most interesting passages of my youthful days ; 
and 1 own that i should be much flattered to see the 
verses set to an air, which wouM ensure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my 
heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Morris. 
I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on 
with the song ou a new plan, which promises pretty 
well. 1 take up one or another, just as the bee of the 
moment buzzes in ray bonnet-lug; and do you, sans 
ceiemonie, make wbaC use you choose of the produc- 
tions. Adieu '. &c. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, November, 1792. 
DEAR SIR, 

I -was just going to write to you that on meeting 
with your Naiude 1 had fallen violently in love with 
her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the charming 
rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to appear be- 
fore the public. She does you great credit, and will 
soon be admitted into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-rig, is so short ; 
the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleasing ; so that, 
if the singer stops at the epd of two stanzas, it is a 
pleasure lost ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and manners 
is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to 
our melodies, yet 1 shall be able to present a consider- 
able number of the very Flowers of JCnglish Song, well 
adapted to those melodies, which in England at least 
will be the means of recommending them to still 
greater attention than they have procured there. But 
you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall, in 
the first place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets: 
and that those of English writers shall follow as addi- 
tional songs, for the choice of the singer. 

"What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; I admire 
it and never meant to supplant it. All 1 requested 
was, that you would try your hand on some of the in- 
ferior stanzas, which are apparently no part of the 
original song : but thi? 1 do not urge, because the song 
is of sufficient length though those inferior stanzas be 
omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. You 
must not think 1 expect all the songs to be of superla- 
tive merit : tnat were an unreasonable expectation. 
1 am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to 
pen verges, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humourous and 
amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Leslie ; it is a thousand 
times better than the Collier's Lassie. ''The deil he 
could na scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric and happy 
thought. Do you not think, however, that the names 
of such old heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, 
unless in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? instead of 
the hne " And never made another," J would humbly 
suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither;" and 1 would 
fain have you substitute some other Une for " Return 
to Caledonia," in the last verse, because I think this 
alteration of the orthography, and of the sound of 
Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of the other song, Afy wife's a winsome wee thin 
I think the first eight lines very good, but 1 do not 
admire the other eight, because four of them are a 
bare repetition of the first verse. I have been trying 
to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better than 
the following : do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with 
the love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing ; 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll thiuk m" lot divine. 



Tho' warld's care we snare o't, 
And may see meickle mair o't ; 
Wi' her i'li olithely bear it, 
And ne'er a word lepine. 

You perceive my dear Sir, I avail myself of the 
liberty which you condescend to allow me, by speaking 
freely what I think. He assured it is not ray disposi- 
tion to pick out the faults ot any poem or picture 1 
see : my first and chief object is to discover and be 
delighted with the beauties of the piece. If 1 set down 
to examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps 
you have written in haste, I may happen to observe 
careless liries, the repcrusal of which might lead you 
to improve them. '1 he wren will often see what has 
been overlooked by the eagle. 1 remain yours faith- 
fully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are just 
come to hand: they breathe the genuine spirit of 
poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever. Such 
verses uniied to such an air, with the delicate harmo- 
ny of 1 leyel superadded, might form a treat worthy 
of being presented to Apollo humself. 1 have heard 
the sad story of your Mary : ou always seem in- 
spired when you write of her. 



No. vm. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie O are perfectly 
right. .So are those of Mi/ wife's a wanton wee thing. 
Vour alteration of the second stanza is a positive im- 
provement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom 
which characterizes our correspondence, 1 must not, 
cannot, alter Bonnie Leslie. You are right, the word, 
" Alexander" makes the line a little uncouth, but I 
think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all 
other heroes, it may be said in the sublime language of 
Scripture, that '• he went forth conquering and to 
conquer." 

" For Nature made her what she is. 
And never made anither." (Such a person as she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than " Ne'er 
made sic anither." However, it is immaterial ; make 
it either way.* " Caledonia," I agree with you, is 
not so good a word as coiUd be wished, though it is 
sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ram- 
say : but I cannot help it. In short, that species of 
stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The Leev-rig is as follows. (Here the poet gives tht 
two first stanzas, as before, p. I2i, with the following 
in addidon.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my Joi 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It makes my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind deary, 0. 

I am interrupted. 

Yourg, &C. 



No. IX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

Inclosing Auld Robin Morris, and Duncan Gray.-- 

See Poems, p, 85. 

ith December, 1792. 
The foregoing (Auld Rob Morris and Duncan 
Gray,) I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. 

* Mr. Thompson has decided on Ne'er Tnade tic 
£, 



LETTERS. 



135 



Acquit Item, OJ condemn them as seemeth good in your 
■igbt. Duucan Uraji is that kind of liglil-iioise gal- 
loo of an air, wliich precludes sentiment. Tlie ludic- 
rous in its ruling feature. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With Poorlith Cauld and Galla Water. 

See Poems, p. 86. 

January, 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear Sir.-- 
How comes on your publication? will these two fore- 
going be of any service to you 1 I should like to know 
what songs you print to each tune besides the verses to 
which it is set. In short, ! would wish to give you my 
opinion ou all the poetry you publish. You know it is 
my trade, and a man in the way of his trade, may sug- 
gest useful hints, that escape men of much superior 
parts and endowments in ether things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued C. greet 
him in my name, with the compliments of the season . 
Yours, &c. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 20, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear Sir, and thousands 
will be happy to see the charming songs you have sent 
me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and 
may you long continue, among the sons and daughters 
of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favoured me, viz. 
Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla WrUer, and 
Cauld Kail, are admirable. Duncan is indeed a lad 
of grace, and his humour will endear him to every 
body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the liappy 
Shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an excellent con- 
trast: they speak from genuine feeling, and powerfully 
touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally in view 
was limited ; but 1 now resolve to include every Scotch 
air and song worth singing, leaving none behind but 
mere gleanings, to whicfi the publishers of omne^aihe- 
rum are welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken away, 
than of one to which nothing could be added. We in- 
tend presenting the subscribers with two beautiful 
stroke engravings ; the one characteristic of the plain- 
tive, and the other of the lively songs : and I have Dr. 
Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject of our 
national music, if his health will permit him to write it. 
As a number of our songs have doubtless been called 
forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless 
damsels, there must be many curious anecdote^^rela- 
ting to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, I believe 
knew more of this than any body, for he joined to the 
pursuits of an antiquary a taste for poetry, besides be- 
ing a man of 'he world, and possessing an enthusiasm 
for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was 
quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say it 
has been solely managed by me, and we had several 
long conversations about it when it was in embryo, if 
I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each 
Bung, and the incident which occasioned the verses, it 
would be gratifying. Pray, willyou send me any in- 
formation of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
■ougs, us the old ones ? 



To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral 
kind, will be joined the delicate accompaniments, &c, 
of Pleyel. To those of the comic and humorous class, 
1 think accompaniments scarcely necessary ; they are 
chieHy fitted for the conviviality of the festive board, 
and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the 
words, renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I 
propose adding bass accompaniments, because then 
they are fitteti either for singing, or for instrumental 
perl'ormance, when there happens to be no singer. I 
mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, 
to set the bass to these, which he assures me he will 
do con amore, and with much greater attention than he 
ever bestowed on any thing of the kind, liut for thia 
last class of airs I will not attempt to find more than 
one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, hag started 1 
know not how many difficulties, about writing for the 
airs 1 sent to liim, because of the peculiarity of their 
measure, and the trammels they impose on his flying 
Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one i 
have yet got from him, being for the fine air " Lord 
tjregory." The Scots verses printed with that air, are 
taken from the middle of an old ballad, called Tlie Lass 
of Lochroyan, which I do not admire. I have set down 
the air therefore as a creditor of yours. Many of the 
Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour, might 
not the best of these be included in our volume of comic 
songs 1 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give me 
perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is most en- 
chantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray possesses native 
genuine humour; "spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a 
hne of itself that should make you immortal. I some- 
times hear of you from our mutual IViend C. who is a 
most excellentfellow, and possesses, above all men I 
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. You 
kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of 
your unpublished productions, religious and amorous ; 
I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If 
you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write 
them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money 
he asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall not betray 
your confidence. I am yourhepyty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

SSi/i January, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans ; Dr. 
Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. On my 
part, I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's 
essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our 
Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I 
have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaint- 
ance with him from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that, in the course of my several peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
individual spot from which every song took its rise ; 
Lockaber, a.nd the Braes of Ballenden, excepted. So 
far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or 
the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have 
paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every 
Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable 
collection of .lacobite songs; but would it give no of- 
fence? In the mean time, do not you think that some 
of them, particularly Tlie Siw's Tail to Geordie, as 
an air, with other wou'is, might be well worth a place 
in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible tn procure aongS J; me-Jt, it would 
be proper to have one set of Scuta 'Ut'iia to every air 
and that the set of words to wiii^'i Jjij uoiet 0'.\ght to 



126 



LETTERS. 



he set. There is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity iu a 
slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
■will add to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the 
eiinjile i athos, or rustic sprightliness of our native mu- 
sic, than any English verseb whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to 
your work. His Gregory ig beautiful. I have tried to 
give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, 
which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter 
the lists with Peter ; that would be presumption in- 
deed. My soog,thougli much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it.* 

My most respectful compliments to the honourable 
gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your 
last. He shall hear from me and receive iiis MSS. 

800U. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. IHOMSON. 

SO/A March, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile works.t I 
leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarka- 
ble, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible 
(at least 1 feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always 
original, entertaining and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs 1 I 
shall be out of all temper with you by and by. I have 
always looked upon myself as the prince of indolent 
correspondents, and valued myself accordingly ; and I 
will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, uor any body 
else. 



No. XIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With the first copy of Wandering Willie. 
See Poems, p. 87. 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whe- 
ther the above, or the old 27iro' the iang Muir, be the 
best. 

• For Burns's words, see Poems, p. 86. The song 
of Dr. Walcott, on the same subject, is as follows : 

Ah 1 ope. Lord Gregory, thy doorl 

A midnight wanderer sighs : 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with wo at this drear night — 

A pilgrim of the gloom 7 
If she whose love did once delight. 

My cot shall y'eld her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

That once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

But ihould'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms inat round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that 
his song is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and 
immediately wrote the other on the same subject, 
\iiililt is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncer- 
tain origin. £. 

t Mary Morison, Poems, p. S6. 



No. XV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH f 

With Alterations. 

Oh I open the door, some pity show, 
Oh ! open the door to me. Oh !" 

See Poems, p. 87. 

I do not know whether this song be eally mended 

No. XVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr ; 

See Poems, p. 87. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR, BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Qd April, 1793. 
I will not recognize the title you give yourself, " the 
prince of indolent corresjiondents ;" but if the adjec- 
tive were taken away, 1 think the title would then fit 
you exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you can fur- 
nish anecdotes with respect to most of the songs ; these 
will be a hterary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs which I believe 
will be (bund nearly complete. I have put down the 
first lines of all the English songs which 1 propose giv- 
ing in addition to the Scotch verses. If any others oc- 
cur to you, better adapted to the character'of the airs, 
pray mention them, when you favour me with your 
strictures upon every thing else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with 
his symphonies and accompaniments added to them. 
1 wish you were here, that I might serve up some of 
them to you with your own verses, by way of dessert 
after dinner. There is so much delightful fancy in ths 
symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity iu the ac- 
companiments — they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last pro- 
ductions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, in my es- 
timation, is more interesting than Peter's, beautiful as 
his is! Your Here awa yVillie must undergo some 
alterations to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have 
been conning it over ; he will suggest what is necessary 
to make them a fit match. f 

* This second line was originally. 
If love it may na be, O .' 

t Set the altered copy of Wandering Willie, p. 83 cf 
the Poems. Several of the alterations seem to be of 
little importance in themselves, and were adopted, it 
may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words 
better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, 
dark-heaving, suggested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself 
more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime, than 
wild roaring, which he has retained ; but as it is only 
applicable to a placid state of the sea , or at most to th« 
swell left on its surface after the storm is over, it gives 
a picture of that element not so well adapted to the 
ideas of eternal separation, which the fair mourner is 



LETTERS. 



127 



Tbe gentleman I have nci-tioned, whose fine taste 
you are no stranger to, is so well pleased both with the 
musical and poetical part of our work, that he has 
volunteered his assistance, and has already written 
four BongB for it, which, by his own desire, 1 send lor 
your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air—" The MiU Mill 0." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning. 

See Poems, p. S7. 

MEG 0' THE MILL. 

JliT—" boncie lass will you lie in a barrack." 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' keii ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 

See Poems, p. 88. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

7A April, 1793. 
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You 
ccmnot imagine how much this business of composing 
for your publication has added to my enjoyments. 
What with my early attachment to ballads, your 
books, &c. ballad-making is now as completely my 
hobby-horse as ever fortification was uncle Toby's ; so 
I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race (God grant that I may take the right side of the 
winning post !) and then cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom 1 have Been happy, I shall sae 
or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae been !" and raising 
my last looks to the whole humaa race, the last words 
of the voice cf Coila' shall be, " Good night and joy 
De wi' you a' I" So much for my past words : now 
for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o'er the moor, 
and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; but in my 
oi)inion— pardon me revered shade of Ramsay! the 
song is unworthy of vhe divine air. I shall try to 
viake or mend. For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, is 
a. charming song ! hut IjO^an bum and Lo^nn braes, 
are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try that 
likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may class 
among the English ones. 1 lemember the two last 
lineg of a verse, in some of the old songs of Logan 
Water (for I know a good many diftereiit ones) which 
I thiiik pretty. 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, farfrae me and Logan braes." 

Bupposed to imprecate. From the original song of 
Here awa Willie, Burns has borrowed nothing but the 
second line and part of the first. The superior excel 
lence of Uiis beautiful poem, will, it is hoped, justify 
the different editions of it whi-h we have given. E. 

* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila in imi 
tation of Ossian, who denon^inates himself the Voice 
of Cona. Sae merry as we a' hae been; and Good 
ni^ht and joy be wi' you <i', are the names o^ two 
Bcollish tunes , 



My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal . " Ilia mind ti 
never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." — 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your 
book. My song, i?i»s of Barley, to the same tupe, 
does not altogether please me ; but if i can mend it, 
and thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will 
submit it to your consideration. The Lass o' Patie'a 
Mill is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one 
loose sentiment in it, which my much valued friend 
Mr. Erskine will take into his critical considera- 
tion. — In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes, are two 
claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the 
other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The 
following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of 
the late John Earl of Loudon, 1 can, on such author! 
ties, believe 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudoncastle with 
the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, 
riding or walking out together, his Lordship and 
Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, 
still called " Fatie's IVlill," where a bonnie lass was 
" tedding hay. bare headed on the green." My Lord 
observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind, 
he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced 
at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; but for 
consistency's sake alter the name "Adonis." Where 
there ever such banns published, as a purpose of mar. 
riage between Adonis and Mary > 1 agree with you 
that my song, There^s nought but care on every hatid, 
is much superior to Poortith caitld. The original 
song. The Mill MiU O, though excellent, is, on account 
of delicacy, inadmissable ; still I hke the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the nqj^ s best ; and 
let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as 
an English set. The Banks of the Dee, is, you know, 
hterally Lansolee, to siow time. The song is well 
enough, but has some false imagery in it; for in 
stance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the free." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low 
bush, but never from a tree ; and in the second place, 
there never was a nightingale seen, or heard, on the 
banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river 
in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
paratively flat. If I could hit on a stanza, equal to 
The small birds rejoice, &c. 1 do myself honestly 
avow, that I think it a superior song.* John Ander- 
son my jo— the song to this tune in Johnson's Museum, 
is my composition, and I think it not my worst ; if it 
suit you, take it, and welcome. Your collection of 
sentimental and pathetic songs, is in my opinion, very 
complete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
Tullocagorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, and 
several others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation ? There is also one senti- 
mental song of mine in the Museum, which never was 
known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I 
got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is 
called Craiifiebum Wood ; and in the opinion of Mr. 
Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is 
quite an enthusiast about it ; and I would take his 
tasile in Scottish music against the taste of most con- 
noisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your 
list, though they are certainly Irish. Shepherds, 1 have 
lost my love I is to me a heavenly air — what would 
you tlunk of a set of Scottish verses to it? i have 

* It will be found in the course of this correspon- 
dence, that the Bard i)roduccd a second stanza cf The 
, Chevalier's Lament (to which he here alludes) worthy 
of the first, E. 



128 



LETTERS. 



made one to It a good while ago, which I think * 

• * but ill its original state is not quite 

a lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended 
eopy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and 
let the Irish verses follow.' 

Mr. Erslrine's songs are all pretty, but bis Lone 
Yale, is divine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these random hints. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
1 rejoice to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-making 
continues to be your hobby-horse. Great pity 'twould 
be were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away 
for many a year, and " witch the world with your 
horsemanship." 

1 know there are a good many lively songs of merit 
that I have not put down in the list sent you ; but 1 
have them all in my eye. My Pa'ie is a lover gay, 
though a little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing 
soiig, and 1 humbly think we ought uot to displace or 
ftlter it, except the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
1 have yours, my dear Sir, this monjent. I shall 
answer it and your former letter, in my desultory way 
of saying whatever comes uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, at the 
beginning, what fiddlers call a starting-note, is often a 
rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, Here awa, there awa, as amended by Mr. 
Erskine, 1 entirely approve of, and return you .J 

Give rne leave to criticise your taste in the only 
thing in which it is in my opinion reprehensible. You 
know I ought to know something of my own trade. 
Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete 

* Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this 
•ong, even in its altered slate. It does uot appear in 
the correspondence ; but il is probably one to be found 
in his MSS. beginning, 

" Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 

The gowdon locks of Anna." 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain 
of sentiment does not correspond with the air to which 
he proposes it should be allied . E. 

t The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting tne words to the music, which, at 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letter of 
Mr. Burns refers to several of these observations. E. 

I The reader has already seen that Burns did not 
finally adopt all of Mr. Erskiue's alterations. £■ 



judge : but there is a quality more necewary than 
either, in a song, and which is the very essence of a 
ballad, I mean simplicity : now, if 1 mistake not, thit 
last feature you are a httle apt to sacrifice to tba 
foregoing. 

Ramsay as every other poet, has not been alwaya 
equally happy in his piece ; still I cannot approve (>f 
taking such liberties with an author as Mr. W. pro- 
poses doing with The last time I came o'er the moor. 
Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, 
and work it into a piece of his own : but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now 
mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house ; by 
Heaven 'twould be sacrilege 1 1 grant that Mr. W's. 
version is an improvement : but I know Mr. \V. well, 
and esteem him much ; let him mend the song, as the 
Highlander mended his gun— he gave il a new stock, a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not by this object to leaving out improper 
stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the 
wliole. One stanza in The lass of Patie's MM, must 
be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I 
am uot sure if we can take the same liberty with Com 
rigs are bonnie. Perhaps it might want the last 
stanza, and be the better for it. Cauld kail in Aber- 
deen you must leave with me yet a while. I have 
vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I 
attempted to celebrate in the verses Poortith cauld 
and restless love. At any rate my other song. Green 
grow the rashes, will never suit. That song is current 
in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which of course would mar the pro- 
gress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the 
standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea 
ever keep your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country 
to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you also a ballad tc 
the Mill Mill O.* 

The last time I came o'er the moor, I would fain at. 
tempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay's bo 
the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When 
you go to London on this business, can you come by 
Dumfries ? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me 
which I have picked up, mostly from the singing cA 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but your 
learned luss would perhaps be displeased with the 
very feature for which 1 like them. I call them sim- 
p!e ; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know 
a fine air called Jackie Hum^s Lament 7 I have a 
song of considerable merit to that air. I'll enclose 
you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to 
send to Johnson's Museum. t I send you likewise, to 
me, a very beautiful little air, which I had taken dowa 
from viva voce.t Adieu 1 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I had scarcely put my last letter into the post-office, 
when 1 took up the subject of The last time I cam* 

* The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that 
given in the Poems p. 87. The ballad to the Mill Mill 
O, is that beginning, 

'• When wild war's deadly blast was blawn." 

t The song here mentioned is that given in the 
Poems, p. S8. O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten? This song is surely Mr. Burns' s own writing, 
though he does uot generally praise his own songs so 
much. 

Note by Mr. Thomson. 

X The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote 
the ballad of Bonnie Jean, given in p. 89 of the Poem*. 



LETTERS. 



129 



t>er the »n« or, and, ere I sleijt, drew the outlineg of 
the foregoing.* How far I have succeeded, I leave 
on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. 
1 own mv vanity is flattered, when you give my songs 
a place in your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to tlie woric is my first wish. As I have often 
told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of | 
compliment to rae. to insert any thing of mine. One 
nint let me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let 
him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; 
I mean in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. Tliey are, I own, 
frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern 
rules ; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, de- 
pends a great part of their eflTecl. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 23lh April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, my dear Sir, for your last two 
letters, and the songs which accompanied them. 1 am 
always both instructed and entertained by observa- 
tions ; and the frankness with which you speak out 
yo\ir mind, is to me highly agreeable. It is very possi- 
ble I may not have the true idea of simplicity in com- 
position. I confess there are several songs, of Alla'U 
Ramsay's for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person, more conversant than I have 
been with country people, would perhaps call simple 
and natural. But the lowest scenes of simple nature 
will not please generally, if copied precisely as they 
a-re. The poet, like the painter, must select what will 
form an agreeable as wellas a natural picture. On 
this subject it were easy to enlarge ; but at present 
euffice it to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly un- 
derstood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 1 will 
gladly appropriate your most interesting new ballad, 
Tv/ien wild war's deadly bias!, &c. to the Mill Mill O, 
as well as the two other songs to their respective airs ; 
but the third and fourth lines of the first verse must 
undergo some little alteration in order to suit the 
music. Pleyel does nut alter a single note of the songs. 
That would be absurd indeed ! With the airs which 
he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to take 
Buch liberties as he pleases ; but that has nothing to 
do with the songs. 



P. S. I wish you would do as you proposed with 
your Higs of Barley. If the loose sentiments are 
threshed out of it, I will find an air for it ; but as to 
this there is no hurry. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, f793. 
When 1 tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, 
in vtrhom I am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice 
to these accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads. 
My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling : but 
the total ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last com- 
mands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill Mill 
0.\ What you think a defect I esteem as a positive 

• See Poems, page 136. — Young Peggy. 

t The lines were the third and fourth. See Poema, 
p, 87. 



^ Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning." 



beauty : so you see how doctors differ. I shall now 
with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your 
comniatids. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edin- 
burgh — he is here, instructing a band of music for a 
fencible corps quartered in this country. Among 
many of his airs that please me, there is one, well 
known as a reel, by the name of The Quaker's Wife; 
and which I remember a grand aunt of mine used to 
sing by the name of Ligseram Cosh, my boniiie wee 
lass. Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expres- 
sion that quite charms me. I became such an enthu- 
siast about it, that I made a song for it. which I here 
subjoin; and enclose Frazer's set of the tune. If they 
hit your fancy, they are at your service ; if not, return 
me the tune, and 1 will put it in Johnson's Museum. 
I think the song is not in my worst manner. 

BIythe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 

See Poems, p. 88. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Hjth June, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready 
to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty 
villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wanton- 
ness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble pas- 
sions ? In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the 
air of Logan Mater; and it occurred to me that its 
querulous melody probably had its origin from the 
plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, 
filed at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer ; 
and overwhelmed with private distress, ttie conse- 
quence of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing at 
all like justice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my 
elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

See Poems, p. 88. 

Do you know the following beautiful little fragmen 
in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs ? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ;" 

See Poems, p. 89. 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful : and quite, 
80 far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, 
else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave 
it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, hue 
in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five 
minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow chair, 1 produced 
the following. 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the 
first number of Mr. Thomson's Musical Work was in 
the press, this gentleman ventured by Mr. Erskine'a 
advice, to substitute for them in that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning." 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are I'nfe- 
rior to the original. This is the only alteration adopt- 
ed by Mr. Thompson, which Burns did not approTe, 



or at least assent to. 



fiSO 



LETTERS. 



The ve/ses are far inferior to the foregoiiis, 1 frankly 
eoofess ; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might 
bs first in place ; as every poet, who knows any thing 
of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a con- 
cluding stroke. 

O, were my love yon ia:"o fair, 
Wi' purpU blosaonc ! ti'« •pring ; 

See Poems, p. 89. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793. 
I am extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any thing 
rhould happen to unhinge you. The times are terri- 
bly out of tut ;; and when harmony will be restored, 
Heaven kul »c» 

The first bocAi M songs, just published, will be des- 
patched to you along with this. Let me be favored 
■with your opinion of it frankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you have 
written for the Quaker's Wife; it is quite enchanting. 
Pray will you return the list of songs with such airs 
added to it as you think ought to be included. The 
business now rests entirely on myself, the gentlemen 
who originally agreed to join the speculation having 
requested to be otf. No matter, a loser I cannot be. 
The superior excellence of the work will create a gene- 
-al demand for it as soon as it is properly known. And 
were the sate even slower than it promises to be, I 
should be somewhat compensated for my labour, by the 
pleasure I shall receive from the music. I canuot ex- 
press how much 1 am obliged to you for the exquisite 
V.ew songs you are seudiug me ; but thanks, my friend, 
are a poov return for what you have done : as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to 
enclose a small mark of my gratitude," and to repeat 
it afterwards when 1 find it convenient. Do not re- 
turn it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence 
js at an end : and though this would be no loss to you, 
i'. would mar the publication, which under your aus- 
pices cannot fail to be respectable and interesting. 



Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the 
old fragment, and for your excellent song to Logan 
Water; Thomson's truly elegant one will follow, for 
Jie English singer. Your apostrophe to statesmen is 
admirable : but I am not sure if it is quite suitable in 
the supposed gentle character of the fair mourner who 
Epeaks ii. 



No. XXVll. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2d, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just finished the following ballad, and, as I do 
think it in my best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, 
who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's woodtiote 
■wild, is very fond of it, and has given it a celebrity, by 
teaching it to some young ladies of the firet fashion 
here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a 
place in your collection, please return it. The song 
yju may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

See Poems, p. 89. 

• FhepouudB. 



I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, or 
in my notes, the names of the fair ones, the themes of 
my songs. I do not mean the name at full ; but dashes 
or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroiive of the foregoing is Miss M. daughter to 
Mr. M. of D. one of your subscribers. 1 have not 
painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in 
the dress and character of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

July, 1793. 
I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me 
with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my 
own ejes. However to return it would savour of df- 
fectatiou : but as to any more traffic of that debtor and 
creditor kind, I swear by that Honour which crowns 
the upright statue of Robert Burns's Integrity — on the 
least motion of it, I wili. indignantly spurn the by-past 
transaction, and from that moment commence entire 
stranger to you ! Burns's character for generosity of 
sentiment and independence of mind, will, 1 trust, long 
out-live any of his wants which the cold unfeeUng ore 
can supply : at least, I will take care that such a cha- 
racter he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never 
did my eyes behold, in any musical work, such elegance 
and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably 
written ; only your partiality to me has made you say 
too much : however, it will bind me down to double 
every effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you 
sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so 1 may 
be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

The Flowers of the Forest is charming as a poem, 
and should be, and must be, set to the notes; but, 
though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalire the 
author of them, who is an old lady of my acquaintance 
and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is » 
Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place; but from 
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment \is--poor sons of a day !" 

The old ballad, / wish I were where Helen lies, is 
silly to contemptibility.* My alteration of it in John- 
son's is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his what 
he calls ancient ballad's, (many of them notorious, 
though beautiful enough, forgeries,) has the best set. 
It is full of his own interpolations, but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few 
songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. 
In the mean time, allow me to congratulate you now, 
as a brother of the quill. You have committed your 
character and fame : which will now be tried for ages 
to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daugh- 
ters cf Taste--all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, 1 have some pretensfons to 
second sight ; and I am warranted by the spirit to 
foretell and affirm, that your great-grand-child will 
hold up your volumes, and say, with honest pride, 
" This so much admired selection was the work of my 
ancestor." 

* There is a copy of this ballad given in the account 
of the Parish of Kirkpalrick-Fleeming, (which contains 
the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) in the Statistics of Sit 
John Sinclair, vol. xiii. p. 'JTIo, to which this chardctet 
is reitainly not applicable, 



LETTERS. 



131 



No. XXIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Ut August, 1793. 
DEAR SIR, 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last two letters, 
and am happy to find you are quite pleased with the 
appearance of the first book. When you come to hear 
the songs suug and accompanied, you will be charmed 
with them. 

Tke bonnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves better 
rerses, and 1 hope you will match her. Cauld KaU 
in Aberdeen — Lei me in this ae nighl, and several of 
the liveUer airs, wait the muse's leisure : thess are 
peculiarly woithy of her choice gifts; besides, you'll 
notice that, in airs of this sort, the singer can always 
do greater justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 
I'/w Busk aboon Traqaair, Lord Gregory, and the 
like ; for iu the manner the latter are frequently sung, 
you must be contented with the sound, without the 
sense. Indeed both the airs and the words are dis- 
guised by the very slow, languid, psalm-singing style 
ui which they are too often performed, they loose ani- 
mation and expression altogether ; and instead of 
I peaking to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy 
Kpon the ear, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad. There was a lass and she was fair, is 
iitnple and beautiful, and shall undoubtedly grace my 
collection. 



No. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
MY DEAR THOMSON, 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at present 
•s studying the music of the spheres at my elbow. 
The Oeorgium Sidus he thinks is rather out of tune ; 
60 until he rectify that mailer, he cannot sloop to 
terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, and if 
more are wanted, he says you shall have them. 



Cojifouud your long stairs ! S. CLARKE. 

No. XXXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages in my 
«ong of Logan Water, is right in one instance, but it is 
ditficuU to mend it ; if I can, I will. The other pas- 
sage you object to, does not appear in the same light 
to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and you will 
probably think, with Utile success ; but it is such a 
cursed, cramp out-of-the-way measure, that I despair 
of doing any thing better to it. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

While larks with little wing, 
Fann'd the pure air, 

See Poems, p. 89. 

So much for namby-pamby. T may, after all, try my 
hand on it in Scots verse. There 1 always find myself 
most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for 
Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits you to insert it, I 
shall be pleased, as the lierione is a favourile of mme ; 
If not, I shall also be ple.ised 



will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the buBiness.* 
'lis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor 
wliich you owe yourself. 



No. xxxn. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

August, 1793. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

I consider it one of the most agreeable circumstances 
attending this pubUcation of mine, that it has procured 
me so many of your much valued epistles. Pray make 
my acknowledgments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; 
tell him I admit the justness of his complaint on my 
staircase, conveyed in his laconic postcript to your 
jeu d^esprit, which 1 perused more than once, without 
discovering exactly whether your discus.sion was mu- 
sic, astronomy, or politics : though a sagacious friend, 
acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and 
the musician, offered me a bet of two to one, you were 
just drowning care together ; that an empty bowl was 
the only thing that would deeply affect you, and the 
only matter you could then study how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair a Scottish 
dress. Peter is furnishing him v;ith an English suik 
for a change, and you are well matched together. 
Robin's air is excellent, though he certainly has an out 
of the way measure as ever Poor Parnassian wight 
was plagued with. I wish you would invoke the muse 
for a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of Down the Burn 
Davie, so that this most exquisite song may no longer 
be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from 
your John Andersen my J^o, which I am to have en- 
graved as a frontispiece to the humourous class of 
songs : you will be quite charmed with it 1 promise 
you. 'I'he old couple are seated by the fire-side. 
Mrs. Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulder's while he smiles, and looks at her 
with such glee, as to show that he fidiy recollects the 
pleasant days and nights when they were first aa 
quent. The drawing would do honour to the pencil oi 
Teniers. 



No. XXXIII, 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune Robin Adair, has run 
80 in my iiead, and I succeeded so ill in my last at 
tempt, that I have ventured in this morning's walk; 
one essay more. You, my dear Sir, will remember an 
unfortunate part of our worthy friend C.'s story, 
which happened about three years ago. That struck 
my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice a« 
follows : 

SONG. 

Had 1 a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to ihe wave's dashing roar 
See Poems, p. 90. 

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander 
in LJredalbane's Fencibles, which are quartered here, 
who assures me that he well remembers his mother's 
singing Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair and Oram' 
ac/iTee. They certainly have more of the Scotch thau 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness ; so 
it could not be any intercourse with Ireland that could 
bring them ; — except, what 1 shrewdly suspect to be 
the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, 

* The song herewith sent, is that in p. 91, of the 

Poems. 



132 



LETTERS. 



Used to go frequently errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and jreland, and so some favourite airs might 
be common to both. A case in point— They have 
lately in Ireland, published an Irish air as they say ; 
called Caun du delisk. 'I'he fact is. in a publication of 
Corri's, a great while ago, you will find the same air, 
called a Highland one, with a GaeUc song set to it. 
Its name there, I think, is Oran OaoU, and a fine air 
it is. ])o ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Par- 
Bon about these mat 



No. XXXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, \-!9Z. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Let Trie in this ae night, I will consider. I am glad 
that you are pleased with my song, Had J a cave, Sfc, 
as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of 
tne Museum in my hand ; when turning up Allan 
Water, " What numbers shall the muse repeat," &c. 
as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine 
an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, 1 sat and 
raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one 
to suit itiii measure. 1 may be wrong ; but 1 think it 
uot in my worst style. You must know, that in 
Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first ap- 
peared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is 
Allan H'riier, or My love A/inie's very bonnie. This 
last has certairily been a line of the original song ; so 
I took up the idea, and as you will see, have introduc- 
ed the hne in its place which I presume it formerly oc- 
cupied ; though 1 likewise give you a chasing line, if 
it should not hit the cut of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
While Fhoebus sank beyond Benleddi,* 

See Poems, p. 90. 

Bravo 1 says I, it is a good song. Should you think 
■otoo (not else) you can set the music to it, and let 
the other follow as Knglish verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more 
Terses in it thau all the year else 



God bless you 1 



MP. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
la Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, one of yoin- 
airs ; I admire it much ; and yesterday 1 set the fol- 
lowing verses to it. Urbaui, whom I have met with 
here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much ; 
but as i understand that he looks with rather an evil 
eye on your work, 1 Jul not choose to comply. How- 
ever, if the. song does not suit your taste, 1 may pos- 
sibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in 
my eye is in Johnson's Museum. 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,t 
O whistle, and 111 come to you, my lad : 

See Poems, p. 90. 



Another favoutite air of mine, is, The muckin o' 

* A mountaia, west of Strath-Allan, 3,009 feet high. 
tl. B. 

t In some of the MSS. Ihe four first lines run thus ; 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, and 111 come to thee, my io , 
The' father and mother, abd a' should say no, 
O whiotle, a»id I'll come to thee, mv jo. 

S-e also I.itltr', So. LXXVH. 



Geordie's Byre, when sung slow wi.h expression ; I 
have wished that it had had better poetry ; that 1 haT« 
endeavoured to supply as follows : 

Adown winding Nith 1 did wander,* 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

See Poems, p. 90. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner m 
your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is 
a Miss P.M. sister to Bonnie Jean. They are both 
pupils of h's. You shall hear frcm me the very first 
grist I get from my ihyming mill. 



No. XXXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favonrHe of yours, 
iaat I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin- 
shot at the muses :t when the muse that presides o'er 
the shores of Nith. or rather my old inspiring, dearest 
nymph, Colia, whispered me the following. 1 have 
two reasons for thinking that it was iny eariy, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth glid- 
ing without step," and pouring the song on my glow- 
ing fancy. In the first place, since I left Colia's native 
haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer 
her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; 
so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, 
or at least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanzas of this song 1 send you, is the very words 
that Colia taught me many years ago, and which I 
set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to ray breast. 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

See Poems, p. 91. 

If you think the above will suit your idea of your 
favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. The last time 
I came o'er the moor, I cannot meddle with, as to 
mending it ; and the musical world have been so long 
accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, 
though positively superior, wouldnot be so well receiv- 
ed. I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793 
DAINTY DAVIE.* 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 

To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 

See Poems, p. 91 . 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is to 
the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of it in the 
Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out the 
tune to twelve fines of poetry, w^hich is *♦** nonsense. 
Four lines of song, and four of chorus is the way. 

* This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to 
more advantage without the chorus ; as is indeed the 
case with several other songs of our author. E. 

t Gloamin — twilight ; probably from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word whi:h cijht ta bi! sdopted ia 
England. A gloamm-shot, a twilight inter»lew. 

X Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, 
from which Burns has taken'nothiog but the title anij 
the measure. E. 



LETTERS. 



133 



No. XXXVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Ut. Sept, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Since writing you last, I have received half a dozen 
80iigs with which I am delighted beyond expression. 
The humour and fancy of Whisile, and I'll come to you, 
my lad, will render it nearly as great a favourite as 
Duncan Gray. Come let me take thee to my breast — 
Adown winding Nith, and By Allan stream , &c. are 
full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit the 
airs for which they are intended. Nad I a cave on 
some wild distant shore, is a strilting and atfecting 
composition. Our friend, to whose story it refers, 
read it with a swelling heart, 1 assure you. The union 
we are now forming, I think, can never be broken ; 
these sofigs of yours will descend with the music to the 
latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished so long 
as genius, taste and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think it right 
to enclose a list of all the favours I have to ask of her, 
no fewer than twenty and three ! I have burdened 
the pleasant leter with as many as it is probable he 
will attend to : most of the remaining airs would puz- 
zle the English poet not a little ; they are of that pecu- 
liar measure and rhythm, that they must be familiar 
to him who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
You may 'readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exer- 
tion in my power is heartily at your service. But one 
thing 1 must hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pin- 
dar is of great service to your publication, so get a verse 
from him now and then ; though I have no objection, 
as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste are 
merely a few of nature's instincts, untauglit and un- 
tutored by art. For this reason, many musical com- 
positions, particularly where much of the merit lies in 
counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish 
the ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no 
otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the 
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with 
many httle melodies, which the learned musician 
despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether 
the old air Hey twlie tariie may rank among this num- 
ber : but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it 
has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradi- 
tion, which 1 have met with in many places of Scot- 
land, that It was Robert Bruce's march at the battle 
of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wan- 
derings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
theme of Liberty and Independence, wliich I threw 
into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one 
might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on that eventful morning.* 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth and 
Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. g. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly 
pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for 
it ; but 1 had no idea of giving myself any trouble on 
the subject, till the accidental recollection of that 
glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the 
glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same 
nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming 
mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you 

* Here followed Bruce's address as given in the 
Poems, p. 92. 

This nooie strain was conceived by our poet during 
• »toi m among the wilds of Glen-Ken in Galloway. 



will find in the Museum ; though I am afraid that the 
air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant 

selection. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think 
my correspondence is persecution. No matter, I can't 
help it ; a ballad is my hobbyhorse ; which though 
otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast 
enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that 
when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, 
it gets so enamoured with the tingle-gingle, tinklegin- 
gle, of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
lic, the bedlam-jockey, quite beyond any useful point 
or post in the common race of man. 

The following song 1 have composed for Oran Gaoil, 
the Highland air that you tell me in your last, you 
have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have 
this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint. If it suit you, well! — if not, 'tia also 
Weill 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart I 

See Poems, p. 91. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the greatest 
modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest merit. 
While you are sending me verses that even Shakspeare 
might be proud to own, you speak of them as if they 
were ordinary productions! Your heroic ode is to 
me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish 
language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party 
of our friends, to whom I read it. They were al! 
charmed with it, intreated me to find out a suitable 
air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune 
so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as Hey '.it'tie 
taittie. Assuredly your partaility for this tune must 
arise from the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it ; for I never heard any person, 
and 1 have conversed again and again, with the great- 
est enthusiasts for Scottish airs, 1 say 1 never heard 
any one speak of it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of 
which 1 lately sent you the list ; and 1 think Lewie 
Gordon, is most happily adapted to your ode: at 
least with a very slight variation of the fourth line, 
which 1 shall presently submit to you. There is ia 
Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, 
particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit 
which your words would oblige the singer to give it. 
I would liave no scruple about substituting your ode 
in the room of Lewie Gordon, which Jias neither the 
interest, tlie grandeur, nor the poetry that character- 
ize your verses. Now tiie variation I have to suggest 
upon the last line of each verse, the only line too short 
for the air, is as follows ; 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
3ci, Let him, let /li/re turn and flie. 
ith, Let him bravely follow me. 
5'A, But Uiey shall, tbey shall be free. 
^Lh, Let us, let us do or die 1 

It you connect each line with its own verse, 1 do not 
think you will find that either the sentiment or the 
expression loses any of its energy, 'I'he only line 



134 



LETTERS. 



which I dislike in the whole of the «ong is, " Welcome 
lo your gory bed." Would not another word be 
preferable lo welcome ? la your next J will expect to 
be inlormed whether you agree to what I have pro- 
posed. The Uttle aiteratious I submit with the great- 
est deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for Oran 
Caoil will ensure celebrity to the air. 



No. XLII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go 
my observations on it.* 

Down the hum Davie. I have this moment tried an 
alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, 
and the first half of the last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way 

And tliro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he afc did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, wlien shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."t 

Thro'' the wood Laddie — I am decidedly of opinion 
that both in this, and There'll never be peace till Jamie 
comes hame, the second or high part of the tune, being 
a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only 
for instrumental music, one would be much better 
omitted in singing. 

Cowden-knowes. Remember in your index that the 
aongin pure English to this tune, beginning, 

' WTien summer comes the swains on Tweed.' 

ra the production of Crawford. Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some time. 1 
do not know the air ; and until I am complete master 
of a tune, in my own singing, (such as it is,) I can never 
compose for it. My way is : T consider the poetic 
sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical 
expression ; then choose my theme ; begin one stanza : 
when that is composed, which is generally the most 
difficult part of the business. I walk out, sit down now 
and then, look out for objects in nature around me 
that are in unison and harmony with the cogitations of 
my fancy, and workings of my bosom; humming every 
now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. 
When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the 
solitary fire side of my study, and there commit my 
effusions to paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind 
legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, 
this, at home, is almost invai-iably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice, I am for leaving out. It s a plaguy 
length ; the air itself is never sung ; and its place can 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his pubUcation. 
In his remarks, the hard proceeds in order, and goes 
through the whole ; but on many of them he merely 
signifies his approbation. All his remarks of any im- 
poitance are presented to the reader. 

t This alteration, Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at 
least intended to adopt) instead of the last stanza of 
the original song, which is objectionable, in point of 
delicacy. E. 



well be supplied by one or two songs for fine aV- fiwt 
are not in your li-st. For instance, CrasieburrfKjtMd 
and Roy's YVife. The first, beside its intrinsic iHcrit, 
has novelty ; and the last has high merit, as weil as 
great celebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the hand-wiiting of the lady who 
composed it: and they are superior to any edition of 
the song which the public has yet seen.' 

fFishland Laddie. The old set will please a mers 
Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italianized one. 
There is a third, and what Oswald calls the old High- 
land Laddie, which pleases more than either of them. 
It is sometimes called Gin^lan Johnnie; it being th« 
air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. Yoa 
will find it in the Museum, / hae been at Crookieden, 
&c. 1 would advise you in this musical quandary, t« 
offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direc- 
tion ; and in the mean time, waiting for this direction^ 
bestow a libation lo Bacchus ; and there .s not a doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Probatun Est, 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, and 
put in its place The Quaker's Wife. 

Bliihe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the finest songi 
ever I made in my life ; and besides, is composed on a 
young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely wo- 
man in the world. As 1 purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half a century 
hence, you must certainly include Tlie bonniest lass m 
a' the warld in your collection. 

Daintie Davie. I have heard sung, nineteen thousand 
nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with 
the chorus to the low part of the tune ; and nothing has 
surprised me so much as your opinion on this saWect. 
If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the 
stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father. I enclose you Frazer's set of this 
tune when he plays it slow ; in fact he makes it the 
language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas 
in that style, merely to try if it will be any improve- 
ment. Were it possible, in singing to give it half the 
pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirably pat.'ietic song. I do not give these verses 
for any merit they have. 1 composed them at the time 
in wliich Patie Allan's mither died, that was about tin 
back o' midnight ; and by the lea side of a bowl of 
punch, which had overset every mortal in company, 
except the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. 
See Poems, p. 91. 

Jockey and Jennie I would discard, and in its place 
would put There's nae luck about the house, which has 
a very pleasant air, and which is positively the finest 
love IJallad in that style in the Scottish or perhaps any 
other language. When she came ben she bubbv, as an 
air, is more beautiful than either, and in the andante 
way, would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. 

Saw ye my father? is one of my greatest favourites. 
The evening before last, I wandered out, and began a 
tender song ; in what I think is its native style. I 
must premise, that the old way, and the way to gi\e 
roost effect, is to have no startiug note, as the fiddlers 
call it, hul to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings--Saw ye my father, &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, befois 
I proceed, to know your opinion of it. 1 have sprinkled 
it with the Scottish dialect, but it may easily be turned 
into correct English. t 

* This song, so much admired by our bard, will be 
found at the bottom of p. 144. E. 

t This song begins, 

" Where are the jovf I hae met in the morning 7" E, 



LETTERS. 



135 



Todlin hanie. Urbani mentioned an idea of his, 
which has long been mine ; that this air is highly sus- 
ceptible of pathos ; accordingly, you will soon hear him 
Rt your concert try it to a song of mine in the Museum ; 
Ve banks and. braes o' bo/inie Doon. One song more 
and I have done: Aiild lang syne. The air is but 
fiediocre ; but the following song, the old song of the 
olden times, and which has never been in print, nor 
even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old 
man's singing, is enough to recommend any air.* 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And uever brouglit to min' 1 

See Poems, p. 92. 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly 
You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, 
Droperly so called. (Jill Morice, Tranent Muir, 
M'Phei son's Farewell, Batile of Sheriff Muir, or We 
ran and they ran, (I Know the author of this charming 
Dallad, and his history,) Hardiknate, Barbara Allen, 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has 
yet appeared,) and besides, do you know that I really 
have the old tune to which The Cherry and the Slae 
was sung ; and which is mentioned as a well known 
air in Scotland's Complaint, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called The Banks o' 
Helicon; an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to 
light. You will see all this in Tytler's history of Scot- 
tish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no 
great merit ; but it is a great curiosity, 1 have a good 
many original things of tills kind. 



No. XLIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

September, 1793. 
I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so 
much. Your idea " honour's bed," is, though a beau- 
tiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you please, we will let 
the line Bland as it is. I have altered the song as fol- 
lows: 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 

See Poems, p. 92. 

JV. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the 
common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had 
enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my 
head aches miserably. One comfort ! I suffer so 
much, just now, in this world, for last night's joviality, 
that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. 
Amen, 



MR, THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

12(/i September, 1793. 
A thocsand thanks to you, my dear Sir. for your ob- 
ervations on the list of my songs. I am happy to find 
/our ideas so much in unison with my own, respecting 
the generality of the airs, as well as the verses. About 
•ome of them' we ditfer, but there is no disputing about 

• This song of the oiden time is excellent. U is wor- 
thy of our bard. 



hobby-horses. 1 shall not fail to profit by the remark* 
you make ; and to re-consider the whole with atteo- 
tion. 

Dn'm'y Davie must be sung two stanzas together, 
and then tlie chorus : 'tis the proper way. 1 agrea 
with you that there may be something of pathos, or 
tenderness at least, in the air of Fee him Father, when 
peiformed with I'eeling : but a tender cast may be 
given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining the 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, 
wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song 
tor Fee him Father, which you began about the back 
of midnight, I will publish as an additional one. Mr. 
James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and the best 
singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousands of companies with Fee him 
Father, and with Todlin hame also, to the old words, 
which never slioidd be disunited from eitherof theso 
airs--Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. Fy, 
lets a' to the bridal, for instance, is so coarse and vul- 
gar, that 1 think it fit only to be sung in a company of 
drunken colliers ; and Saw ye my Father? appears to 
me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I 
think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent 
general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers 
which would tend to make death more frightful than 
it is. Gory presents a disagreeable image to the min;l, 
and to tell them " Welcome to your gory bed," seems 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the 
alternative which follows. I have shown the song to 
three friends of excellent taste, and each of them ol> 
jected to this line, which emboldens me to use the free- 
dom of bringing it again under your notice, J would 
suggest, 

" Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR, THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" My 
ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your 
proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. J am exceedingly obliged to you. for putting me 
on reconsidering it ; as I think 1 have much improved 
it. Instead of " soger 1 herol" 1 will have it " Cale- 
donian 1 on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to the world 
some way or other it shall go as it is. At the same 
time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave 
it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of 
adopting Logan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song 
(if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. 
He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and 
perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a 
better ; but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain 
of music, and may employ the genius of some Scottish 
Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader 
will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations 
proposed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances, with great readiness : perhaps, indeed, on all 
indifferent occasions. In the present, instance, how- 
ever, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with 
determined resolution. With every respect for the 
judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, we may be 
satisfied that he did so. He, who in preparing for an 
engagement, attempts to withdraw his imaginatioa 
from Images of d<:ath, will probably have but imperfect 



136 



LETTERS. 



1 have finished my song to Saw ye my Father I and 
In English, as you will see. Tliat lliere is a syllable 
ioo much lor the express-ion of the air, is true ; but al- 
,ow me to say, ihatthe mere dividing of a doited croch- 
et into a crochet and a quaver, is not a great mailer : 
however, in that 1 have no pretensions lo cope in judg- 
ment with you. Of the poeiry I speak with confidence ; 
but the music is a business where I hint my ideas wilh 
the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses nave merit, though unequal, and are 
popular : my advice is, to set the air to the old words, 
and let mine follow as English verses. Here tbey are ; 

FAIR JENNY. 

See p. 134. 

Tune — " Saw ye my Father." 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

See Poems, p. 92. 

Adieu, my dear Sir! the post goes, so I shall defer 
tome other remarks until more leisure. 

No. XLVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to 
find verses whose measures woidd suit the airs, for 
which you have allotted me to find English songs. 

For Muirland WiWie, you have, in Ramsay's Tea- 
table, an excellent song, beginning, " Ah ! why those 

success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, 
where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such 
men the conquerors of Bannockburn were not compos- 
ed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar 
with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that 
memorable day, their spirits were, without doubt, 
wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm, suited to the occa- 
sion ; a pitch of enthusiasm, at which danger becomes 
attractive, and the most terrific forms of death are no 
longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment, this heroic 
" welcome" may be supposed well calculated to ele- 
vate — to raise their hearts high above fear, and to 
nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exer- 
tion. These observations might be illustrated and sup- 
ported by a reference to that martial poetry of all na- 
tions, from the spirit-stiring strains of Tyrtjeus, to the 
war-song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thompson's obser- 
vation, that " Welcome to your gory bed, is a discour- 
aging address," seems not sufiiciently considered. Per- 
haps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory 
is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its pre- 
senting a frightful, but a disagreeable image to the 
mind. But a great poet uttering his conceptions on an 
interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture 
that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the 
delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagination. 
And it is the privilege of supeiioi genius, by producing 
a new association, to elevate expressions that were 
Oi'iginally low, and thus to triumph overthe deficiencies 
of language. In how many instances might this be 
Mcemplified from the works of our immortal Shaks- 

peare *. 

" Who would /ardeZ* bear. 
To groan and sjcea: under a weary life: — 
When he himself might his ^leitu make 
With a bare bodkin .'" 

were easy to enlarge, but lo suggest such reflec- 
tions is probably sufEcient, 



tears in Nelly's eyes 7" As for The CoUiei's Dochl*^ 
take the following old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
1 he fickle Fair can give thee, 

See Poems, p. 92 

The faulty line in Logan- Water, I mend thus : 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry 1" 

The song otherwise will pass. As to M'Gregoira 
Rua Hu'.li, you will see a song of mine to it, with a 
set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. 
p. Isl. Tne song begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing," 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down- 
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of Banna, 
for instance , though really Irish, yet in the Scottish 
taste, you might adopt tliera. Since you are so fond of 
Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an 
additional number 1 We could easily find this quanti- 
ty of charming airs: I will lake care that you shall 
not want songs ; and I assure you that you woula find 
it the most saleable of ihe whole. If you do not ap- 
prove o{ Hoy's Wi/e, for the music's sake, we shall not 
mseit it. Veil take t/ie war*, is a charming song ; so 
is, Saw ye my Peggy ? There's na luck about the liouse 
well deserves a place. 1 cannot say that, O'er the 
hills and far awa, strikes me as equal to your selection . 
This is no mine ain house, is a. great favourite air of 
mine ; and if you will send me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest efi'ort. What is your opin 
ion of I have laid a Herrin in sawt ? I hke it much. 
Your Jacobite airs are pretty : and there are many 
othei-s of the same kind, pretty ; but you have not 
room for them. You cannot, I think, insert Fie, let 
us a' to Vie bridal to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you 
as ludicrous and low. For this reason. Fie. give me 
my ciigie, sirs — Fie, let us a' to the bridal, with several 
others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, 
A'aw ye my Father, or Saw ye my Mother ; delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song. 
Ken ye what Meg o' the M. II has gotten? pleases my- 
self so much that I cannot try my hand at another song 
to the air ; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will 



laugh at all this ; but, " Ilkar 
gait." 



1 wears his belt bis ain 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed 
laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine I' The 
recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publica- 
tion, has till now scared me from writitig to you, or 
turning my thoughts on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the 
Quaker's Wife; though, by the by, an old Highland 
gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a 
Gaelic air, and known by the name o{ Leiser'm choes. 
The following verses, I hope, will please you as ao 
English song to the air. 



Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
'I'hine my lovely Nancy ; 



See Poems, p.i 



Your objection to the Enahsh song I proposed foi 
John Andenson my jo, is cer tainly just. 'I'he following 
is by an old acquaintance of mine, and 1 think has 
merit. The song was never in print, which I think is 

• The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, 
whose mslancholy death Mr. Thomson had communi- 
caied in an excellent letter, which he has suppreised 



LETTERS. 



137 



•o much In your favour. The more original good poe- 
try your colleciion contains, it certainly has so much 
In'e more merit. 



BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

O, condescend, dear charming maid, 
My wretched state to view ; 

A tender swain to love betray'di 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain, 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain. 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 
But how my state is altered I 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

1 love thee more and more. 

O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm th 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, J shall bless thee still, 

And love thee more and more. 



The following address of Turnbull's to the Nigntin- 
Itale, will suit as an English song to the air. There was 
a lass and she was Jair, By the by, Turubull has a 
great many songs in MS. which I can command, if 
you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend 
of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour, but 1 like 
lome of his pieces veiy much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE, 
BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried llje phuntive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain, 
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 

Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 

In sport she wanders o'er the plain.: 
Their tales approves, and still she shuns 

'I'he notes of her forsaken swain. 
When evening shades obscure the sky. 

And bring the solemn hours again. 
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain . 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's which 
ouUl go charmingly to Lewie Oordun. 



BY G. TURNBULL. 



Let me wander where I will. 
By shad-y wood or winding rill ; 



Wliere the sweetest May-bom flowert" 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among; 
Let me wander where 1 will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I chuse, 

To indulge the smiUng muse ; 

If I court some cool retreat, 

To avoid the noon-tide heat: 

If beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Through unfrequented wilds I stray, 

Let me wander where 1 will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Through the fairy-land of love ; 
Let me wander where 1 will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I shall answer at aome other 
opportunity. 



No. XL VIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

llh November, 1793. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

After so long a silence, it gave me peculiar pleasure 
to recognize your well-known hand, for 1 had begun to 
be apprehensive that all was not well with you. I am 
happy to find, however, that your silence did not pro- 
ceed from that cause, and thai you have got among the 
ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to Letter 
'm choss, which I think extremely good, although the 
colouring Is warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbull's song* 
have, doubtless considerable merit : and as you have 
the command of his manuscripts, 1 hope you will find 
out some that will answer, as English songs, to the airg 
yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses to the tuns 
of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife. 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

See Poems, p. 93, 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee? 

See Poems, p, 110. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, llth April, 1794. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss of hli 
child, at the time of his receiving your admirable but 



138 



LETTERS. 



l»vel«nctioIy letter, T had not an opportunity, till lately, 
of perusing it.* How sorry I am to find I5urns saying, 
" Cansi thou not minister to a mind diseased?" while 
he is delighting others from one end uf the island to the 
other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a 
tihysician upon his'case — 'jO. says the doctor, and see 
the famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good hu- 
mour. •*las! Sir, replied the patient, 1 am that un- 
happy Carlini 1 

Your plan for out meeting together pleases me 
greatly, and 1 trust that oy some means or other it will 
soon take place ; Lut your Bacchanalian challenge 
almost frightens me, for I am a miserable weak drinker. 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his 
talents. He has just begun a sketch from your Coi- 
Uj's; SnUirday Niihl. and if it pleases himself in the 
design, he will probably etch or engrave it. In sub- 
jects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps 
unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in 
giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is sowbre, otherwise his paintings and drawings 
would be in greater request. 

1 like the music of the Sutor's Dochter, and will con- 
sider whether it shall be added to the last volume ; your 
verses to it are pretty : but your humorous English 
song, to suit Jo Janet, is inimitable. What think you 
of the air, Within a mile of Edinburgh? It has al- 
ways struck me as a modern imitation, but it is said to 
be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I believe I must 
include it. The verses are little better than namby 
pamby. Do you consider it worth a stanza or two 7 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
MY DE.AR SIR, 

I return you the plates, with which I am highly 
pleased ; I would humbly propose instead of the youn- 
ker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into 
his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the 
ablest judge on the subject 1 have ever met with, and 
though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the 
Burin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. 1 got 
him a peep at the Gentle Shepherd ; and he pronoun- 
ces Allan a most original artist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's chusing my fa- 
vorite poem for his subject, to be one of the highest 
compliments I have ever received. 

1 am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up ir 
France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, 
and for six or seven rnoiUhs, I shall be qui'e i7isom, 
as you shall see by and by. I got an air, pretty enough, 
composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which 
she calls Tlie Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful ro- 



p IS a particular 
lowing song to it. 



friend of mine, I have written the fol 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower ; 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

See Poems, p. 



No. LII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
I* there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work to 
be at a dead slop, until the allies set our modern Or- 
pheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of demo- 
crjLtic discords 7 Alas the day 1 and wo i 



♦ A letter to Mr. Cui 
ueral Currespondeuce. 



aus])icious period pregnant with the happiness of noS* 

lions.* — •««••» 

1 have presented a copy of your songs to the daugh 
ter of a much-valued and much houoL.red friend Oi 
rrine, Mr. braham, of Fintry. 1 wrote on the blank 
side of the title-page the following address to the young 
lady. 

Here where the Scottish muse immortal lives 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

See Poems, p. 93 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, lOlh August, 1794 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I owe you an r.pology for having so long delayed to 
acknowledge the favour of your last. I fear it will be 
as you say. 1 shall have no more songs from Pleyel til'i 
France and we are friends ; but nevertheless, I am 
very desirous to be prepared with the poetry ; and as 
the season approaches in which your muse of Coha 
visits you, 1 trust i shall as formerly, be frequently 
gratified with the resuii of your amorous and tender 
interviews ! 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

30lhAuguit, 1794. 
The last evening, as I was straying out, and think' 
iiig of. O'er the hilts and faraway, 1 spun the follow* 
ing stanzas for it ; but whether my spinning will de 
serve to be laid up i 
the silk-worm, or brt 

manufacture of the spider,! leave, my dear Sir, to your 
usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several 
lines in its hist : but I own that now it appears rather 
a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be 
worth a critique. We have many sailor songs, but as 
far as 1 at present recollect, they are mostly the effu- 
sions of the jovial sailor, not the waihngs of his love- 
lorn mistress, i must here make one sweet exception 
— Sweet Annie frae tlie sea-beach came. Now for Ihs 
song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 



but whether my spinning will de 'v 
II store, like the precious thread of \ 
rushed to the devil, like the vile v 



How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad 7 

See Poems, p. 94. 

1 give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the 
'lirit of (Jhristian meekness. 



No. LV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, I6th September, 1794. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

You have anticipated my opinion of On the seas ana 
far away ; 1 do not think it one of your very happy 
productions, though it certainly contains stanzas thai 
are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, particularly 

" Bullets, spare my only joy !" Confound the bullets I 

k might, perhaps, be objected to the third verse, " A 

the starless midnight hour," that it has too muchgran- 

J hat deur of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 

ngham. No. CL. of the Ge- * A portion of this letter has been left out for rea- 
sons that wilt easily be imagined 



LETTERS. 



139 



would have better euited the character of a sailor's 
•weelheart. The tune, ii muslbe remenihei-ed, is of the 
brisk, cheerful Ifind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my 
humble ouiuion, the song would be better ada))ied to 
Ihe tune, if it consisted only of the first and last 
Teroes witu the choruses. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
I shall withdraw my, O'er the seas and far away, al- 
together: it is unequal, and unworthy the work. 
Making a poem is like begetting a son : yon cannot 
know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until 
you produce him to the world to try him. 

For that reason 1 send you the offspring of my brain, 
aboriion-i ar.d all ; and, as such, pray look over them, 
and forgive them, and burn* them. 1 am flattered at 
your adopting Ca' the yowes to the Imowes, as it was 
owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago 1 was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr.Clunie, who sung it charm- 
ingly : and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down 
from his singing. When 1 gave it to Johnson, I added 
gome stanzas to the song and mended others, but still 
it will not do for you. In a solitary sti-oU which I took 
to-day, I ti-ied my hand on a few pastoral lines, follow- 
ing up the idea of the chorus, which 1 would preserve. 
Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on 
its head. 

CHORUS. 



Co' the yowes to the knoioes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows. 



See Poems, p. 



shall give yo'j my opinion of your other 
aaopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

September, 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called Onagh's 
Water-fall ? The air is charming, and I have often re- 
gr-etted the want of decent verses to it. it is too much 
at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that 
every effort of hers shall have merit ; siill I think that 
it is better to have mediocre verses to <» favourite air, 
than noire at aU. On this pi-inciple I have all along 
proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; and as that 
publication is at Us last volume, 1 intend the following 
song to the air above-iP-entiorred for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may he pleas- 
ed to hav? verses to it that you can sing befur-e ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue. 

See Poems, p. 94. 



•Not to 



compare small things with great, my taste iu 
ike the mighty Freder-ick of Prussia's taste in 
painting ; we are told that he fr-equently admired what 
the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hy- 
pocrisy corrfessed his admiration. lam sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because 

* This Virgiliair order of the poet should, I think, 
be disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the 
second 8tai)/.a excepted. Note by Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second s«>anza 
does not strike the Editor. E. 



people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no 
merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I mn 
cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny 
myself that pleasure 7 Many of our strathspeys, 
ancient and moderrr, give me most exquisite en- 
joyment, where you and otiier judges would probably 
be showing disgust. For instance, I am just ? >•«' m?k- 
ing verses for Huthiemurchie's Rani,a.a air which puts 
me in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be pleased v<rith 
the tuire, 1 never can make ver-ses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side who is a judge that I will pit against 
any of you. liotldemurchu', he says, is an air both 
original and beautiful ; and orr his recommendation I 
have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and 
the fourth or last part for the song. I am brit two 
stanzas deep in the wor-k, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your at- 
tention as the music' 

I have begun anew, Let mein this ae night. Do you 
think that we ought to retain the old chorus 7 I 
think we must i-etain both the old chorus and the 
fir-st stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like 
the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to 
please myself. I am just thi-ee stanzas deep in it. 
Would you have the denoumeiU to be successful or 
otherwise 7 Should she " let hirn in," or not 1 

Did you not once propose The Sow's Tail to Gear- 
die, as an air for your work 7 I am quite diverted 
with it ; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real 
excellence. 1 once set about ver-ses for it, which I 
meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his 
mistress chanting together, 1 have not the pleasure 
of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, ami 
yours 1 am afraid is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else 1 had meant to have made you the hero and 
heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, which I 
wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's recovery 
from a fever 7 Doctor Maxwell was the physician 
who seemingly saved her fr-om the gtave ; and to him 
I address the following. 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

On Miss Jessy Staig's Recovery, 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

'I'hat mei-it 1 deny : 
Y Ju save fair .lessy from the grave ?— 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle I 



No. LVIII. 
MR, THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant upor 
her favourite poet, whose wooil-no'.es wild are becom- 
ing as enchanting as ever. She says she lo'es me best 
of a', is one of the pleasantest table-songs I have seeii, 
and hencefurlh shall be mine when the soug is going 
round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can more 
powerfully proclaim its merit. 1 am far from underv 
valuing your taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
contr-ary, 1 think it highly animating and agreeable, 
and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with 
such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs 
in the same way that rough Christians are te.mirered 
and softened by lovely woman ; without whom, you 
know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow's Tail, particularly 
as your proposed verses to it ai-e so extremely promis- 
ing. Georilie, as you observe, is a name only fit for 
burlesque composition Mrs.'I'hompson's name (Kath- 
erine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie therefore, 
and make the other Jamie, or any other that sound* 
agreeably. 

* In the original, follow here two stanzas of a song, 
' beginning " Lassie, wi' the lint-white locks." 



140 



LETTERS. 



Your Co' the etees is a precious little morceau. In- 
deed, J am perfectly astonished and charmed with the 
endless variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you, 
whether you never seriously turned your thoughts 
upon dramatic writing 7 'I'hat is a field worthy of 
your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its 
splendor. One or two successful pieces upon the 
London stage would make your fortune. The rage at 
present is for musical dramas : few or none of those 
Which have appeared since the Duenna, possesses 
■luch poetical merit : there is little in the conduct of 
the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the audience. 
They are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I 
Jhink you might produce a comic opera in three acts, 
Which would live by the poetry, at the same time that 
h would be proper to take every assistance from her 
tuneful sister. Part of the songs, of course, would be 
to our favourite Scottish airs : the rest might be left 
to the London composer— -Storace for Drury-lane, or 
Shield for Covent-Garden : both of them very able and 
popular musicians. I believe that interest and man- 
CEUvring are often necessary to have a drama brought 
on ; so it may be with the namby pamby tribe of 
flowery scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. 
Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of 
genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me 
for obtruding these bints upon your consideration.* 



No. LIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Wh October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the re-ex- 
amination of the Scottish collections. I have read, 
and sung, and fiddled, and considered, till I am half 
blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I have added 
are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs I 
expected from him, which are in general elegant and 
beautiful. Have you heard of a London collection of 
Scottish airs and songs, just published by Mr. Ritson, 
an Englishmen ? I shall send you a copy. His intro- 
ductory essay on the subject is curious and evinces 
great reading and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; though he 
shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious disser- 
tation, has adduced no sort of proof of tlie 1 ypothesis 
he wished to establish ; and that his classification of 
the airs according lo the eras, when they were com- 
posed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinker- 
ton, Esq. he has no mercy ; but consigns him to dam- 
nation ! He snarls at ray publication, on the score of 
1 indar being engaged to write some songs for it ; un- 
caudidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that 
.he songs of Scottish writers had been sent a packuig 
to make room for Peter's 1 Of you he speaks with 
tome respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for 
daring to dress up a little, some old foolish songs for 
the Museum. His sets of the Scottish airs. are*tdken, 
he says, from the oldest collections and best authori- 
ties : many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by 
every person of taste, old or young, in town or coun- 
try, that we can scarcely recognize the features of our 
favourites. By going to the oldest collections of our 
music, it does not follow that we find the melodies in 
their original state. These melodies had been pre- 
served, we know not how long, by oral communica- 
tion, before being collected and printed : and as diti'er- 
ent persons sing the same air very di9"erenlly, accord- 
ing to their accurate or confused recollections of it, so 
even supposing the first collectors to have possessed 
the industry, tiie taste and discernment to choose the 
best tliey could hear, (which is far from certain,) still 
it must evidently be a chance, whether the collections 
exhibit any of the melodies in the stale t!i«y were first 

* Our bard had before received the same advice, 
and certainly took it so far into consideration as to 
have cast about for a subject. E. 



composed. In selecting the melodies for "ny swn Mi- 
lection, 1 have been as much euided by the Uving aa 
by the dead. Where these differed, 1 preferred the 
sets that appeared to me the most simple and beauti 
ful, and the most generally approved : and without 
meaning any compliment to my own capability of 
choosing, or speaking of the pains 1 have taken, I 
flatter myself that my sets will be found equally freed 
from vulgar errors on the one habd, and affected 
graces ou lue other. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

19th October, 1794. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

By this morning's post 1 have your list, and, in gene- 
ral, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure give 
you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your own 
town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him 
and take his opinion in general : you know his taste is 
a standard. He will return here again in a week or 
two; so please do not miss asking for him. One thing 
I hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my favourite 
Crasie-burn-wood, in your selection ; it is as great a 
favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was 
maie, is one of the finest women in Scotland ; and ia 
fact (en're nous) is in a manner to me, what Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you 
will in the guileless simplicity of I latonic love. (Now 
don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, 
or have any clish-maclaver about it among our ac- 
quaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend 
you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. 
Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of exist- 
ence, could inspire a man with life, and love, and 
joy — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No 1 no I — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song ; 
to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs ; do 
you imagine that I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation ? Tout au conlrai-ie I 1 have a glorious recipe ; 
the very one that for his own use was invented by the 
divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of jidmetus. 1 put myself in a regimen of ad- 
miring a fine woman ; and in proportion to the adora- 
bility of her charms, in the proportion you are delight- 
ed with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the 
godhead of Parnassus ; and the witchery of her soule. 
the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea of When 
she cam ben she bobbit. the following stanzas of mine, 
altered a little from what they were formerly when set 
to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stan- 
zas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

O, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O, saw ye my dear, ray Phely 1 

See Poems, p. 95. 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The Posie 
(in the Museum) is my composition ; the air was taken 
down from Mrs. Burn's voice.* It is well known in 
the West Country, but the old words are trash. By 
the by, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which RosLn IJasile 
is composed. The second part in particular, for the 
first two 01 three bars, is exactly the old air. Slrah- 
allen's Lamnt, is mine: the music is by our right 
trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. 
Oon'iclu-HeaA is not mine ; 1 would give ten pound* 
it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald j 

* The Posie will be found in the Poems, p. 109. This, 
and the other.poems of which he speaks, had ajjpeared 
ill Johnson's Museum, and Mr. T. had inquired wheth- 
er they were our bard's 



LETTERS. 



141 



and came to the eriitor of tlw» paper with the Newcaa- 
tie post-mark on it.* vyhUJe o'er the lave o' I ia mine ; 
the music ia said to be by John Bruce, a celebrated 
Tiolin-player in Dumfries, about the beginning of thii 
Sentary. This I know, Bn-ce, who was an honebt 
man, though a red wud Highlandmaa, constantly claim- 
e-d it ; and by all the oldest musical people here, ia be- 
lieved, to be the author of it, 

Andrew and his cutty Gun. The song to which this 
is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on 
Miss Eiiphemia Murray, of l.introse, commonly and 
deservedly called the Flower of istrathmore. 

Hnw long and dreay is the night ! I met with some 
&vich words in a collection of songs somewhere, which 
I altered and enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit 
your favourite air, I have taken a stride oi two across 
my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find 
on the other page. 

SONG. 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

See Poems, p. 95. 

Tell me how you like this. T differ from your idea 
of the expressions cf the tune. There is, to me, a great 
deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, 
dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings 
at the same time so charmingly, that 1 shall never bear 
t" see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked 
as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done ia his London 
collection. ^ 

These English songs gravel me to death. I have 
not that command of the language that 1 have of my 
native tongue. I have been at Duncan Gray, to dress 
it in English, but all 1 can do is deplorably stupid. For 
instance ; 

* The reader will be curiotis to see this poem, so 
highly praised by Burns. Here it is. 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,(l) 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale ; 
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale : 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, \ 

And dinna let your minstrel fa' ; 
And dinna let his winding sheet. 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Fu'<{ ninety winters hae I seen, 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew ; 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie waked and soon she cried, 

' Get up, guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye keen the winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Eppie's voice O wow it's sweet. 

Even tho' she ban? and scaulds a wee ; 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, hailh, it's doubly dear to ine ; 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame'; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate. 

Ye should nae stray so far frue hame. 

" Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

And weeping at' the eve of life, 
1 wandered thro' a wreath o' anaw." 



This affecting poem is apparently incomplete, 
author need not be ashamed to own himself, 
"worthy of Burns, or of Macniel. E. 

(I) A mountain in the North. 
1 Mr. Ritson. 



The 
It is 



Let not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love j 

See Poems, p. 95. 

Since the above. I have been out in the country, tak. 
ing a dinner with a friend, where I met with ihe lady 
whom 1 mentioned in the second page in this odds- 
aiid-ends of a letter. As usual I got into song : and 
returning home X composed the following : 

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; 
Rosy morn now hits his eye,*t 

See Poems, p. SS 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, 
1 will vamp up tlie old song, and make it English 
enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East India air, 
which you would swear was a Scottish one. 1 know 
the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it 
over, is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do pre- 
serve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I 
have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting 
it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses i 
intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoic'd the day. 

See Poems, p. 96. 

I would be obliged to you if you would procure me 
a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which 
you mention in your letter. I will thank you for ano- 
ther information, and that as speedily as you please : 
whether this miserable drawUng hotchpotch epistU 
has not completely tired you of my correspoudence 1 



No. LXT. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ^th October, 1794. 
I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet 
can no more exist without his mistress than his meat. 
1 wish 1 knew the adorable she whose bright eyes and 
witching smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish 
bard 1 that I might drink her sweet health when the 
toast is going round. Cragie-burn-wood, must cer- 
tainly be adopted into my family, since she is the ob- 
ject of the song ; but in the name of decency 1 must 
beg a new chorus-verse from you. to be lying be- 
yond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to be 
wished, but will not do for singing in the company of 
ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, 

* From the fifth to the eleventh line of this song 
stood originally thus : 

Now to the streaming fountain. 
Or up the heathy mountain. 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely wildly-wanton stray ; 
In twining hazel boweis 
His lay the linnet pours , 
The lav'rock, &c. 

t The last eight lines stood originally thus : 

When fare my Chloris parted. 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted. [•■> • 

The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'erc\»t BW 

But when she charms my sight, 

In pride of beauty's light ; 

When thro' my very heart 

Her blooming glories dart. 
Tis then, 'tis then, I wake to life, and joy. «. 



142 



LETTERS. 



and suit the respective airg charmingly. I am per- 
fectly of your opinion with respect to the ailditional 
airs.' The idea of sending them into the world naked 
as they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
be clnlhed and made decent by our friend Claike. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham 
in sending you Ritson's Scottish collection. Permit 
me, therefore, to present you with his Enghsh collec- 
tion, which you will receive by the coach. I do not 
find his historical essay on Scottish song interesting. 
Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, lam 
sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a 
charming design from Maggie liauder. She is dan- 
cing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the 
most exquisite glee. 1 am much inclined to get a 
small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of 
Ritsun's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concerning 
Maggie Lauder? was she a real personage, and of 
what rank? You would surely spier foi- her if you 
ca'd at Anstruther toicn. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present. 
It is a book of the utmost importance to me. 1 have 
yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I 
intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you. 
which will save me from the tedious, dull business of 
systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say 
consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of 
old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give the work 
a beginning, a middle, or an end, which the critics in- 
sist to be absolutely necessary in a work.* In my last 
I told you my objections to the song you had selected 
for My lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit the 
other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
of the lovely goddess of my mspiration) she suggested 
an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought 
into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair ; 

See Poems, p. 93. 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of 
this pastoral 1 I think it pretty well. 

I Uke your entering so candidly and so kindly into 
the story of Ma chere Amie. I assure you I was never 
more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that 
affair which 1 sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a 
passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, 
somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as 
that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which 
the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inex- 
pressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all 
the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 
I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. — 
The welfare and happiness of t*ie beloved object is the 
first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; 
and whatever pleasures 1 might wish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they 
interfere with that first principal, it is having these 
pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, 
and generosity disdains the purchase ! * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety 
enough in English songs, ] have been turning over old 

* It does not appear whether Burns completed these 
anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the 
rude draughts) was found amongst his papers and 
appears in Appendix No II. Note B, 



I collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure i« 
something similar to what I want ; and, with a littls 
alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, 
to give you them for your work. \S here the songs have 
hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set 
to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, 
under the same first verse, you will find in Harnsay's 
Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English 
dress to your DaindeDacie, as follows: 

SONG. 

Altered from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh aiid gay, 

See Poems, p. 96. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the 
bombast original, and you will be surprised that 1 have 
made so much of it. I have finished my song to Ho- 
ik icmurchie's Rant ; and you have Clarke to consult as 
to the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE WI' THE LINT -WHITE LOCKS.* 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lin'.-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

See Poems, p. 96. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a regular 
pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the au- 
tumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly 
rounded. If you like it, well: if not, I will insert it iu 
the Aluseum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so 
tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, to the foolish old 
verses. You talk of the silliness of Saw ye my fn'her } 
By heavens! the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
song, though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the early edi- 
tions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, 
by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; so has no pretensions to 
be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English 
song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, to this air, which la 
out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant restoring," 

The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, 
is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness 
and love. I have again gone over my song to the tuna 
as follows.! 

Now for my English song to Nancy's to the green' 
wood, 5fc. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

See Poems, p. 97. 

There is an air, TVie Caledonian ffunt's Delight, to 
which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 

Ye banks ani braes o' bonnie Doon ; this air, I 
think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
says of his knights. Do you know the history of the 

* In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song 
runs thus : 

And should the howling wint'ry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 
And comfort thee my dearie 0. 

t See the song in its first and best dress m page 212. 
Our bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this 
into an English mould ; but, to my taste, in the simple 
and the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the 
old Scottish has an inimitable effect." E. 



LETTERS. 



143 



tSr", It is curious enough. A good many years ago, 
Mr. .'aines Miller, writer in your good town, a gentle- 
man whom puiisibly you know, was in company with 
our friend Clarke ; and talking ot Scottish music, Mil- 
ler expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose 
a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told 
him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and 
preserve some kind of rhythm : and he would infallibly 
compose a Scots air. C eiti.in it is. that, in a few days, 
Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which 
Mr. Clarke with some touches and corrections, fashion- 
ed into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has 
the same story of the black Ireys ; but this account 
which 1 have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me 
of several years ago. Kow to show you how difficult 
it is to trace the origin of our airs, 1 have heard it re- 
peatedly asserted tiiat this was an Irish air ; nay, I 
met with an Irisb gentleman who affirmed he had 
heard it in Ireland among the old women ; while, on 
the other hand, a Countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into tliis country, was a 
baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down 
the notes frojn an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. 
How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our 
poesy and music ! I, myself have lately seen a couple 
of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries with 
my name at the head of them as the author, though it 
was the first time that I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Cragie-burn-wood ; and 
I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In 
fact the chorus was not my work, but a part of some 
old verses to the air. If i can catch myself in a more 
than ordinary propitious moment, I shall write a new 
' ragie-burn-wood altogether. My heart is much in 
ine theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; 
'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a moment, when 
I had forgotten whether 1 was rich or poor, I promised 
Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest 
pride to write you this : but an ungracious request is 
Joubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some 
umeuds, as soon as 1 have extracted the necessary 
information out of them, I will return you Kitson's 
volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so 
distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not 
& little proud that 1 have it in my power to please her 
80 much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour 1 know 
not when to give over. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

IZlh November, 1794. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

Since receiving your last, T have had another inter- 
view with Mr. Clarke, and a long consultation. He 
thinks the Caledonian Hunt is more Bacchanalian 
than amorous in its nature, and recommends it to you 
to match the air accordingly. Pray did it ever occur 
to you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapt- 
ed for verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first part 
of the air is generally low, and suited for a man's 
voice, and the second part in many instances cannot 
be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A 
»ong thus performed makes an agreeab.e variety, but 
few of ours are written in this form : 1 wish you would 
'.hink of it in some of those that remain. The only one 
ot the kind you have sent me is admirable, and will 
oe a universal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are SO sweetly pas- 
toral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Diel tak the 
wars, so passionately tender, that I have sung myself 
Into raptures with them. Your song for My lodging 
is 0)1 the cold ground, is likewise a diamond of the 
first water ; and I am quite dazzled and delighted by 
(. Some of yoir Ctlorises 1 suppose have flaxen hair, 



from your partiality for t.iis colour ; else we differ 
about it ; lor I should scarcely con&^ive a woman 
to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-whita 
locks. 

Fareiaell thou stream that winding flows, T think 
excellent, but it is much too serious to come after 
Na7ici/ ; at least it would seem an incongruity to pro- 
vide the same air with merry Scottish and melancholy 
English verses ! The more that the two sets of verses 
resemble each other in their general character, the bet- 
ter. Those you have manufactured for Dainty Dacie 
will answer charmingly. 1 am happy to find you have 
begun your anecdotes ! I care not how long they be, 
for it is impossible that any thing from youi pen can 
be tedious. Let me beseech you not to use ceremony 
in telling me when you wish to present any of your 
friends with the songs : the next ccirrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to 
a pinch of snuff. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

mh November, Yl^A. 
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspon- 
dent I am ; though indeed you may thank yourself for 
the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me 
on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and 
praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am 
scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before break- 
fast, I finished my duet which you were pleased to 
praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeed- 
ed, I will not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not an hour old. 

HE. 

O Philly, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

T am much pleased with your idea of singing our 
songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not 
hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, 1 shall 
have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the 
name Phillv ; but it is the common abbreviation o, 
Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has to 
my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any 
thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poet- 
asters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Rit- 
son, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mis- 
taken vulgarity for Simplicity : whereas, simplicity is 
as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as 
from affected point and puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Crazie-burn-wood, 
that a chorus would in some degi-ee spoil the effect ; 
and shall certainly have none in my projected song to 
it. It is not however a case in point with Rothiemur- 
chie ; there, as in Roy's Wife of Aldivnloch, a chorus 
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going 
first, that is the case with Roy's Wife, as well as 
Rothiemurchie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that 
irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we 
must e'en take them with all their wildness, and 
humour the verses accordingly. Leavingout the start- 
ing note, in both timesihas, I think, an effect that no 
regularity could counterbalance the wan. of. 

Try 

O Rov's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
O Lassie wi' the lint-white loclM , 

and compare with, 

Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locka. 



144 



LETTERS. 



Does not ihetamenesa of the prefixed syllable 'strike 
you? la the last case, with the true furor of genius, 
you strike at once into the wild originality of the air : 
whereas in the first insipid method, it is like the gi-a- 
ting screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into 
tune. This is my taste ; if I am wrong, 1 beg pardon 
of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming that it would 
make any subject in a song go down ; but pathos is 
certainly its native tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians 
we certainly want, though the few we have are excel- 
lent. For instance, Todj^n Home, is, for wit and 
humour an unparalleled composition : and Andrew 
and his cutty gun, is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men 
of genius, for such they certainly wei-e, who composed 
our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has 
given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchana- 
lian songs in Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for 
an air 1 like much — Lumps o' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair, 
Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

See Poems, p. 97. 



If you 
Johnson. 



not relish this air, I will send it to 



Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a 
couple of English stanzas, by way of an English song 
to Roy^s Wife. You will allow me that in this in- 
stance, my English corresponds iu sentiment with the 
Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY ? 

Chorus. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me Uuis, my, Katy ?* 

See PoeTns, p. 97. 

• To this address, in the character of a forsaken 
lover, t. reply was found on the part of the lady, among 
the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand-wri- 
ting; which is doubtless that referred to in p. 134, let- 
ter No. XLII. Note. The temptation to give it to the 
public is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, oflence should 
be given to the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses 
mu&t plead our excuse. 

Tune—' Roy's Wife.' 

Chorus. 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe m,e, 

For, ah! thou know^st na every pain 

Wad wring my bosom shouldsl thou leave tne. 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 

And when this heart proves fause to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay my Willie, ((c. 

But to think I was betray'd, 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder 1 
To take the flow'ret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' serpent under I 
Stay my Willie, 8fc. 

Co lid 1 nope thoud'st ne'er deceive. 
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
S:ay My Wdlie, !fc. 

it may amusi the reader to be told, that on this oc- 
casion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the 
dialects of their respective couatries. The Scottish [ 



Well! I think this, to be done in two or three tnmt 
across my room, and wit;; two or tiiru'i ^ nches of Irish 
Blackguard, is not so .nr amiss, i ou see I am clet«r» 
mined to have my quantum of applause from some- 
body. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure thai ws onT 
want the trifling circuinstance of being know to one an- 
other, to be the best ft lends on earth) that I much sus- 
pect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 
stock and horn. 1 have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a 
very rude instrument. It is composed of three parts ; 
the stock, which is the hinder thighbone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a muion ham ; the horn, which is a 
common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller 
end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the 
stock to be pushed up * tirough the horn until it be held 
by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an 
eaten reed exactly cut ind notched like that which you 
see every shepherd boy have, when the corn stems are 
green and full-grown. ' The reed is not made fast in the 
bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the 
smaller end of the stock : while the stock, with the horti 
hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in f\ay- 
ing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upv)er 
sides, and one back ventige, like the common flute. 
This of mine was made by a man from the braes ot 
Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use 
in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in the 
holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly ; 
for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses I 
will send him a sight n'^ mine ; as 1 look ou myself to 
be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride in Poeta 
is nae sin ;" and I will say it, that 1 look on Mr. Allan 
and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painter* 
of Scottish costume ii. tne world. 



MR. THOMSUN TO MR. BURNS. 

QSth November, 1794. 
1 acknowledge, my dc.e.r Sir, you are not only the 
most punctual, but thi most delectable correspondent 
I ever met with. To attempt flattering you, never 
entered into my head ; the truth is, I look back with 
surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbhng at 
lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for 
which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you would 
have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, 
you have all along condescended to invite my criticiairj 
with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, 
if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. 
Your last budget demands unqualified praise : all the 
songs are charming, but the duet is a chef d' CBUvra. 
Lumps o' Pudding shull certainly make one of cof 
family dishes ; you have cooked it so capitally, that (t 
will piease all palates. Do give us a few more of vhi* 
cast when you find yountCf in good spirits ; these con- 
vivial songs are more wanted than Ihose of the amorous 
kind, of which, we have great choice. Besides, OD* 
does not often meet with i singer capable of giving tha 
proper effect to the lattor, while the former are eajiily 
sung, and acceptable to every body. I participate in 
your regret that the authors of some of our best songa 
are unknown ; it is provoking to every admirer of 
genius. 

I mean to h^ve a pictuie painted from yoar beautiful 
ballad, TTie Soldier's Return, to be engraved for one 
of my frontispieces. Tht laost interesting point of Jin>« 
appears to me, when she first recognizes her ain (ien? 
Willy, " She gaz'd, she ii'ddeu'd li^e a rose." The 
three lines immediately U.'iuwing are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the 

bard makes his address in pure English : the rep.y oa 
the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, If we 
mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englisliwo- 



LETTERS. 



145 



psmterto fir on these, then you'll observe the anima- 
Cffa and anxiety of her countenance is gone, and he could 
Duly represent her fainting in the soldier's arms. But 
I Bubmit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your accurate des- 
cription of the stock and horn, and for the very gratify- 
ing compliment you pay him in considering him worthy 
of standing in a niche by the side of Burns in the Scot- 
tish Pantheon. He has seen the rude instrument you 
describe, so does not want you to send it ; bnt wishes 
to know whether you believe it to have ever been 

fenerally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shep- 
erds, and when, and in what part of the country 
chiefly. I doubt much if it was capable of any thing 
but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says, he re- 
members to have heard one in his younger days made 
of wood instead of your bone, and that the sound wa» 
abominable. 
Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 
It is, I aisure you, the pride of my heart, to do any 
thing to forward, or add to the value of your book ; and 
as 1 agree with you that the Jacobite song in the Muse- 
um, to TkereHl never be peace till Jamie comes hame, 
would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
love-song to that air, I have just framed for you the 
following : 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. ' 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes. 
See Poems, p. 98. 

How does this please you ? As to the point of time 
for the expression, in your proposed piint from my 
Sodger's Return, it must certainly be at — " She 
gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and suspense taking 
possession of her countenance, and the giishing fond- 
ness with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me, as thingsof which a masterwill makea great deal. 
In great haste, but in great truth, yours. 



No. Lxvn 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

January, 1795. 
1 fear for my songs ; however a few may please, yet 
originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a 
multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears al- 
together. For these three thousand years, we poetic 
folks, have been describing the spring, for instance ; 
and as the spring continues the same, there must soon 
be a sameness ui the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming 
folks. 

A great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, that love and 
wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The 
following is on neither subject, and consequently is no 
Bong ; but will be allowed, i think, to be two or three 
pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into ryhme. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head and a' that ; 

See Poems, p. 98. 

do not give you the foregoing song for your book, 
but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for the piece 
ia not really poetry. How will the following do for 
Oraigie-buTTi-wood 7* 



Sweet la's the eve on Cralgiebum, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 



See Poems, p. i 



Farewell I God bless you. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ZOth January, 1795. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I thank you heartily for Nannie's awa, as well as for 
Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely pair. Your 
observation on the difficulty of original writing in «. 
number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very 
forcibly : and it has aoain and again excited my won- 
der to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, 
in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your 
vive la bagatelle song. For a' that, shall undoubtedly, 
be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favorite air. 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou walcin, I would wit ? 



See Poe7M,p. 98. 



HER ANSWER. 
O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain. 

I do not know whether it will do 



No. LXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan, 1th Feb. 179S 
MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament ir 
which I write to you. In the course of my duty as Su 
pervisor (in which capacity I have acted o.- late) I came 
yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village. 
1 have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have 
impeded my progress ; I have tried to " gae back the 
gait I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me 
up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune 
since dinner, a scraper lias been torturing catgut, ift 
sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a 
sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, 
on that very account, exceeding good company. In 
fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to 
forget these miseries, or to hang myself to get rid of 
them ; like a prudent man, (a character congenial to 
my every thought, word, and deed,) 1 of two evils, have 
chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service t* 

I wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not 
time then to tell you all 1 wanted to say ; and heaven 
knows, at present 1 have not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must know it, 

village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. — The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, 
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and 
that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. E. 



Craigie-burn-wood is situated on the banks of the * The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to nboM 
rtver Moffat, and about three miles distant from the sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. E. 

o 



146 



LETTERS. 



We'll gan; nae mair to rjon foion ? I think, in slowish 
time, it would make an excellent son?. I am highly de- 
lighted with it ; and if you should think it worthy of 
your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I 
would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. 



No. LXXI. 

MR. THOMPSON TO MR. BURNS. 

25th February, 1795. 
I hare to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, 
one containing Let me in this ae night ; and the other 
from Ecclefechan, proving that drunK or sober, your 
'^ mind is never muddy." You have displayed great 
address in the ahove song. Her answer is excellent, 
and at the same time, takes away the indelicacy that 
otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. I 
like the song as it now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ec- 
clefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious fore- 
noons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to 
receive the verses you intead for O mat ye wha's in 
yon town? 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

O stay sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the »,rembljng spray. 

£•66 Poems, JO. 99. 

Let me know, your very first leasure, how you like 
Ihis song. 

CN CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Chorus. 

Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow. 

See Poems, p. 99. 

How do you like the foregoing .' The Irish air, Hu- 
mours of Glen, isa great favourite of mine; and as, 
except the silly stuff in the Poor ^Soldier, there are not 
any decent verses for it, I have \w"iiten for it as 
follows : 

SONG. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reciton, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 

See Poems, p. ^9. 



'Twaa na her bonnie Wue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 

See Poems, p. 59. 

Let me hear from you. 



No. LXXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



you must not think, my good Sir, that I have any in- 
tention to enhance the value of my gilt, when 1 say, in 



justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the il«- 
sign and execution of the Cotter's Saturday Night ii, 
in m^ opinion, one of the happiest productions of Al- 
lan's pencil. 1 shall be grievously disappointed if yo« 
are not quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think strik- 
ingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. 
This should make the piece interesting to your family 
every way. — Tell me whether Mi-s. Burns finds you oiil 
among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration with 
which I have read your \>?i.\hel\c Address to the Wood- 
Lark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your 
affecting verses on Chloris's illness. Every repeated 
perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to 
" Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to these, is 
very pleasing. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

How cruel are the parents, 
Who riches only prize ; 

See Poems, p. lOO. 



SONG. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

See Poems, p. 100. 

Well ! this Is not amiss. You see how I answer your 
orders; your tailor could not be more punctual. I ana 
justTiow in a high fit for poetizing, provided that the 
strait jacket of criticism don't cure me. Ifyoucanin 
a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating por- 
tion of your applause, it will raise your humble sei*- 
vant's frenzy to any height you want, lam at this 
moment '-holding liigh converse" with the Muses, 
and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic 
dog as vou are. 



No. LXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

May, 1795. 
Ten thoitsand thanks for your elegant present ; 
thcuigh 1 am ashamed of the value of it being bestowed 
on a man who has not by any means merited such aa 
instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree 
witli me in classing it as a first rate production. My 
phiz is soe ken-speckle, thai the very joiner's appren^ 
tice whom Mrs. Burnes employed to break up the 
parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. — 
My most grateful compliments to Allan, who has hon- 
oured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. 
One strange coincidence is, that the httle one who is 
making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'd wee, 
rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that pro- 
pensity to witty wickedness, aud manfu' mischief, 
which even at two days auld, I foresaw would form Ilia 
striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Ni- 
col, after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be 
nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued friend 
Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednesday I go to 
visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality ia 
speaking of me, in a manner introduced me — I inean 
a well-known military aud literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 



LETTERS, 



147 



Tou do not tell me how you liked my two last songs 
Are they condemned 1 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I3«7i May, 1795 
It girea me great pleasure to find that you are so 
Well satisfied with Mr. Allan's production. The 
chance resemblance of your little fellow, whose pro- 
mising dispositron appeared so very early, and sug- 
gested whom he should be named after, is curious 
enough. I am acquainted with that person, who is a 
prodigy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

Yoi) really make me blush when you tell me you 
have not merited the drawing from me. I do not think 
I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and 
spect you for the liberal and kind manner in which you 
have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which 
could not have been perfected without you. So I be^ 
you would not make a fool of me again, by speakuig of 
obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and am happy 
to find you are in such a high fit of poetizing. Long 
may it last! Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to 
Mallet's superlative ballad of William and Margaret 
and is to give it me to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

In Whistle, and Pll coine to you, my lad, the itera- 
tion of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes 
what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 

Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 

Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I the Priest of 
the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame, 
whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom 
the loves have armed with lightning, a Fair One, her- 
self the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment; 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

SONG. 

O this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair Iho^ the lassie he; 

See Poems, p. 100. 

Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of 
Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three 
or four songs for him, which he is to set to music him- 
self. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, 
which please to present to my valued friend Cunning- 
ham. 

J enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, 
and that you may copy the song, O bonnie was yon 
T^sy brier. I do not know whether lam right; but 
tliat song pleases me, and as it is extremely probable 
that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be sooa 
smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you Ulce the socg, 
it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of I wish my 
love was in a mire ; and poor Erskine's English lines 
may follow. 

I enclose you, a For a' that and a' that, which was 
never in print; it is a much superior song to mine. 
I have been toid that it was composed by a lady. 
Now spring has clad the grove in gieeu 
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 



See Poems, p. 100. 



bonnie was yon rosy brier 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o» man ; 

See Poems, p. 101, 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edi. 
tion of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, in so 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most 
ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often 
sung under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair frieud, 
Nor thou the gift refuse, 



Une bagatelle de V amitie. 



See Poems, p. 101. 
COILA. 



No. LXXVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 3i Aug. 1795. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Rrianton. who 
has read your works, and pants for the honour of your 
acquaintance. 1 do not know the gentleman, but his 
friend, who applied to me for this introduction, being ' 
an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind 
feasted, with your last packet — full of pleasant things 
indeed. What an imagination is yours ! It is super- 
fluous to tell you that I am delighted with all the three 
songs, as well as with your elegant and tender versea 
to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter O whistle, 
and ril come to ye, mn lad, to the prosaic line, T'>y 
Jenny will venture wV ye, otv lad. I must be permit- 
ted to say, that I do not thinlc the latter either reads 
or sings so well as the former. J wish, therefore, you 
would, in my name petition the charming Jeany 
whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a fe^ 
airs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrets 
his writing so very little, as every body acknowledses 
his ability to write well. Pray was the rpsnlntinn 
formed cooly before dinner, or was it a midnight vow, 
made over a bowl of punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what yoii 
liave sent him. 

P. S. The lady's For a' that and a» that, is sensible 
enough, hut no more to be compared to yours thaa I 
to Hercules. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON* 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, 1 wander here ; 

See Poems, p, 101. 

How do you like the foregoing? I have written it 
within this hour : so much for the speed of my Pegassus, 
but what say you to his bottom 7 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this song 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that 
it requires, thinks M. Thomson's petition unreasona- 
ble. If we mistake not this is the same lady who pro- 
duced the lines to the tme of Roi^'j fi'ife, ante, p. 
Mo. 



148 



LETTERS. 



MR. BITRNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Last May the braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
Aad Bair wi' his love did he deave me ;* 



WTjy, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy ? 

See Poems, p. 102. 

Such U the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, 
that I find it impossible to make another stanza to 
suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charming 
sensations of the tooth-ach, so have not a word to 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

3d June, 1795. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Your English verses to Let me in this ae night, are 
tender and beautiful ; and your ballad to the - Lothian 
Lassie," is a masterpiece for its humour and tiai- 
vele. The fragment for the Caledonian Hunt is quite 
suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it 
plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I 
would rather, as i said before, have had Bacchanalian 
words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, nevertheless, 
for what we have received, Lord make us thankful 1 



No. LXXXII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 

5th Feb. 1796, 
O Rdbhy Bums, are ye sleeping yet 1 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is awful ! 
Am 1 never to hear from you again? I know and I 
lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but 
I trust that returning health and spirits will now 
enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with 
your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and 
Irish airs that I wish "married to immortal verse." 
We have several true born Irishmen on the Scottish 
list ; but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our 
own good subjects. Indeed we have none better. I 
believe I before told you that I had been much urged 
by some friends to publish a collection of all our favour- 
ite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a num- 
ber of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan ; — what 
is your opinion of this ? 

* In the original MS. the third line of the fourth 
Terse runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin 
Bess." Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well 
as to the wcrd, JDalsarnock in the next verse. Mr. 
Burns replies as follows : 

♦' Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind 
»f passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confinec 
of this county. Dalgarnock is also the name of a ro- 
mantic spot near the Kith, where are still a ruined 
ehurch and burial-ground. However, let the first run, 
" He up tlie lang loan," &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives 
locaUty to our poet's verses. E. 



No. LXXXIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, ele- 
gant present, to Mrs. B , and for my remaining 

vol. of P. Pindar.— Peter is a delightful fellow, and a 
first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your 
idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, 
with etchings, I am extremely willing to lend every 
assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheer- 
fully undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhap- 
sody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire 
much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms 
See Poems, p. 102. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish en- 
gagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing ; 
tlie name of Chloris— 1 meant as the fictitious name of 
a certain lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish 
pastoral ballad. — Of this and some things else, in my 
next : I have more amendments to propose. — What 
you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" is just ; they 
cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of 
this also again — God bless you 1* 



No. LXXXIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Your Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a most excellent 
song, and with you the subject is something new in- 
deed. It is the first time 1 have seen you debasing the 
god of soft desire, into an amateur of acres and 
guineas.— 

I am happy to find you approve of my proposed octa- 
vo edition. Allan has designed and etched about 
twenty plates, and I am tc have my choice of them for 
that work. Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
with which they abound, they exhibit the character 
and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable 
felicity. In this respect, he himself says they will far 
exceed the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle 
.Shepherd, because in the etching he sees clearly what 
he is doing, but not so with the aquatinta, which be 
could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boor.s of Ostade are scarcely more cha- 
racteristic and natural than the Scottish figures in 
those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some tin»« 
ere I tune my lyre again I " By Babel streams I have 
sat and wept," almost ever since 1 wrote you last : I 
have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy 
hand of sickness and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain I Rheumatism, cold and fever, have 
formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes 
in misery, and open them without hope, I look on th* 
vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson— 

• Our Poet never explained what name he would 
have substituted foi Chloris. 

Note by Mr. Thornton. 



LETTERS. 



149 



" Say. wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop 
landlady of the Globe Tavern here, wliich for these 
many years has beeu my liowff, and where our friend 
Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
highly delighted wiih Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd 
and married an' a', is admirable. Ihe s;rouping \s 
beyond all praise. The expression of the figures con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely fault- 
less perfection. 1 next admire, Turn-imspike. What 
I like least is Jenny said to Jockey. Besides the female 
being in her appearance * * * * if 

you take her stooping into the account, she is at least 
two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn : 1 
sincerely sympathize with him I Happy I am to think 
that he has yet a well grounded hope of health and 
enjoyment in this world. As for me—but that is 
a • • • • subject 1 



No. LXXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

4th May, 1796. 
I need not tell you, my good Sir, what concern the 
receipt of yo'jr last gave me, and how much I sympa- 
thize in your sufferings. Biit do not 1 beseech you, 
give youiself up to despondency, nor speak thj lan- 
guage of despair. The vigour of your constitution, I 
•rust, will soon set you on youi feet again ; and then 
it ie to be hoped you will see the wisdom and the neces- 
sity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your 
family, to your friends, and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable ac- 
counts of your convalescence, and returning good 
spirits, I remain with sincere regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the 
gold seal to ycu b gsod condition. 



No. LXXXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I once mentioned to you an air which I have long ad- 
Vn\red--Here's a henllhto them that's awa, hinnie, but 
I forget if you took any notice of it. 1 have just been 
trying to suit it with verses ; and I beg leave to recom- 
mend the air to your attention once more. 1 have 
only begun it. 

Chorus, 

Here's a health to ane Ilo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane Ilo'e dear ;* 

See Poeins, p. 102. 



No. LXXXVHI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young 
fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or 
two in town, you will have leisure if you choose to 
writ* me by him : and if you have a spare half hour to 
spend with h'm, I shall place your kindness to my 

• In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stan- 
ztis only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our 
poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, 
however, found the fourth stanza, which completes 
this exquisite song, the last finished offspring of his 
muse. E. 



account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent yoa, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and pos- 
sibly may mend some of them : so, when you hav» 
complete leisure, I would thank you for either the 
originals or copies.* 1 had rather be the author of five 
well-written songs, than of ten otherwise. I have 
great hopes that the genial influence of the approach- 
ing summer will set me to rights, but as yet 1 cannot 
boast of returning health. I have now reason to be- 
lieve that my complaint is a flying gout — a sad busi- 
ness. 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me 
to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a month ago. 
I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear 
from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, Uth July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, cursed necessi* i 
compels me to implore you for five pounds. A crua 
* * * * of a haberdasher, to whom 1 owe an ao 
count, taking it into his head that 1 am dying, has cono 
menced a process, and will infallibly put me into jai\. 
Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re- 
turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the 
horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do 
not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning 
health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you 
have seen. 1 tried my hand on Roihieniurckie this 
morning. The measure is so difficult, thai it is impos- 
sible to infuse much genius into tlie lines ; they are oa 
the other side. Forgive, forgive me 



Fairest maid on Devon Banks, 
Chrystal Devon, winding Devon,\ 

See Poems, p, 102. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

HLh July, 1796. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. 
Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner I 
could endeavour to alleviate youi sufferings. Again 
and again 1 thought of a pecuniary ofier, but the recol- 
lection of one ot your letters on this subject, and the 
fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. 1 thank you heartily therefore for the frank- 
ness of your letter of the 12lh, and with great pleasure 
enclose a draft for the very sum 1 proposed sending. 
Would I were Chancellor of the Eichequerfor ouedajr 
for your sake? 

* It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not 
live to perform. E. 

t This song, and the letter enclosing it, are written 
in a character that marks the very feeble state of 
Burns's bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that 
he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dum- 
fries, where certainly he had many firm friends ; nor 
under any such necessity of imploring aid from Edin- 
burgh. But about this time his reason began to be at 
times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually 
haunted his imagination. He died on the 2l8t of thi« 
month. E. 



J 50 



LETTERS. 



Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible foj you to muster 
a volume of poetry ? If too much trouble to you in the 
pres<;nt stale of your health, some liter.irj friend might 
be found here, who would select and arrange from 
yourmanuscripts, and take upon liim the task of Edi- 
tor. In the mean time it could be advertised to be 
published by subscription. Do not shun this mode of 
obtaining the value of your labour: remember Pope 
published the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my 
dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive with my 
advice. You are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear you to impute anything! Bay to an 
unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. 

The verses to RotMemuTchie will answer finely. I 
ara happy to see you can still tune your lyre. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER, 

PROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of 
the history of the preceding Poems,* on which the 
celebrity of our Bard has been hitherto founded ; and 
with this view the following extract is made from a 
letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our poet, and 
his friend and confidant from his earliest years. 



Mosgill, 2d April, 179S. 
DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the t-lth of March I received in due 
course, but from the hurry of the season have been 
hitlierlo hindered from answering it. I will now try to 
give you what satisfaction I can, in regard to the par- 
ticulars you mention. I cannot pretend to be very ac- 
curate in respect to the dates of the poems, but none of 
them, except Winter a Dirge, (wliich was a juveni.e 
pioduction,) The Death and Dijing words of Poor 
Maillie, and some of the songs, were composed before 
the year 173-1. The circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as he has described them. He had 

Eartly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs 
-om a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were going 
out, with our teams, and our two younger brothers to 
drive for us, at mid-day ; when Hugh Wilson, a curi- 
ous looking awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us 
with much anxiety in his face, with the information 
that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and 
was lying in the ditch. Kobert was much tickled with 
Jiuoc's appearance and postures on the occasion. Poor 
Maillie was set to rights, and when we returned from 
the plough in the evening, he repeated to me her Death 
ani Dying Words, pretty much in the way they now 
Btand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the Epistle to 
Daoic. Robert often composed without any regular 
plan. When any thing made a strong impression on 
bis mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would 
give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in 
rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please 
him, he would then think of proper introductory, con- 
necting, and concluding stanzas ; hence the middle of 
a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in 
summer 1784, when in the interval of harder labour, 
he and I were weeding in the garden, (kailyard,) that 
he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I 
believe the first idea of Robert becoming an author 
was started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
. with the epistle, and said to him. 1 was of opinion it 
Would bear being printed, and that it would be well re- 
ceived by people of taste ; that I thought it at least 
equal if not superior to many of Allan H amsays epis- 
tles , and that the merit of these, and much otlier 
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the 
knack of the exi)ression, but here, there vvas a train 
of iuteresiing seutimeut, and the 6coticisra of the lau- 

• This refers to the pieces inserted before page 60 of 
(he I'oems. 



guage scarcely seemed affected, but appeared to be the 
natural language of the poet: that, besid-es, there was 
certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out tne con- 
solations that were in store lor him when he should go 
a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my 
criticism, and we talked of senaing it to some maga- 
zine, but as this plan afforded no opportiniity of knoW' 
ing how it would take, the idea was diopped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following as we were 
going together vtAlii carts for coal to the family fire (and 
I could yet point out the particular spot) that the au- 
thor first repeated to me the Address to the Deil. 'J'he 
curious idea of such an address was suggested to him 
by running over in his mind the many ludicrous ac- 
counts and representations we have, from various 
quarters, of this august personage. Death an I Doc- 
tor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmarnock 
edition, was produced early in the -ear 17S,5. The 
.Schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scan- 
ty subsistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having acciden- 
tally fallen in with some medical books, and become 
most hobby-horsically attached to the study of medi- 
cine, he haa added the sale of a few medicines to hi» 
little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the 
bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, ha 
had advertised, that Advice would be given in " com- 
mon disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
mason meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie un- 
fortunately made too ostentatious a display of his medi- 
cal skill. As he parted in the evening from this mix* 
ture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he de- 
scribes his meeting with Death, one of those floating 
ideas of apparition he mentions in his letter to Dr. 
Moore, crossed his mind : this set him to work for the 
rest of the way home. These circumstances he rela- 
ted when he repeated the verses to me next afterncon, 
as I was holding the plough, and he was letting the 
water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John 
Lapraik was produced exactly on the occasion de- 
scribed by the author. He says in that poem. On fa^it- 
en-c'en, ue had a rockin. I believe he has omitted the 
word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the countrywomen 
employed their spare hours in spinning on the rack, or 
distaff. This simple implement is a very portable one, 
and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a 
neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of going a-rock- 
in-;, or uyith the rock. As the connexion the phrase 
had with the implement was forgotten, when the rock 
gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to 
be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men 
talk of going with their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house when 
we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, 
that Lapraik's song beginning — '• When I upon thy 
bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who 
was the author. Upon this, Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in leply to his an- 
swer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain Dasy 
were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while 
the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out 
the particular spot where each was composed. Hold- 
ing the plough was a favourite situation with Robert 
for poetic composition, and some of his best verses 
were produced while he was at that exei cise. Several 
of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing 
forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He 
used to remark to me. that he could not well conceive 
a more mortifying picture of human life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this 
sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy Man 
was made to mourn, \va.a zom\io&eii. Robert had fre- 
quently remarked to me that he thought theie was 
something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
worsiiip God," used by a decent, sober head of a fami. 
ly, introducing family worship. To this sentiment of 
the author the world is indebted for the Cotter's Sa ur- 
day Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the 
poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmers' Inde. 
When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which 
I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently 
to walk together, when tlie weallier was favourable 
on the Sunday afternoons (those precious breatiuuj 



LETTERS. 



151 



limes to the labouring part of the community,) and en- i 
joyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see 
their number abridged. It was iu one of tliese wallts, 
tliat I first had tlie pleasure of hearing the author re- 
peat the Colter's Saturday Ni^/U. 1 do not recollect 
to have heaul or read any tiling by which 1 was more 
highly elecirifed. The fitlh and sixth sianzas, and the 
eighteenth, thrilled with pecuhar ecstacy through rny 
eoul. I mention this to you, that you may see what 
hit the taste of unlettered criticism. I should je giad 
10 Icnowifthe enlightened mind and refined taste of 
Mr. Roscoe, who has borne such lionourable testimony 
to this poem, agrees with me in the selection. Fer- 
gusson, in his Hcdlow Fair of Edinburgh, 1 believe, 
liltewise furnished a hint of the title and plan of the 
Holy-Fair. The farcical scene the poet there de- 
scribes was often a favorite field of liis obsei vation, and 
tjie most of the incidents he mentions had actually 
passed before his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to 
mention that the Lament was composed on that unfor- 
tunate passage in his matrimonial history, which I 
have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the 
first distraction ol his feelings had a little subsided. 
Tke Talc of Twa Dogs was composed after the reso- 
.ution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
had a dog, which lie called Lun.ih, that was a great fa- 
vourite. The dog had beenljilled by the wanton cruel- 
ty of some person the night before my father's death. 
ftoberl said to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow ujion his old friend 
Luatk, and that he had a great mind to introduce 
something into the book, under the title of Stanzas to 
the Memory of a quadruped Friend ; bul this plan was 
given up for the Tale as it now stands. Ccesar was 
merely the creature of the poet's imagination, created 
or the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Lu- 
afh. The first time Robert heard the spinnet played 
upon, was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of 
the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given 
up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie has 
several daughters : one of them played : the father 
and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
the bruUier, the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. 
It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then late- 
ly introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a 
poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas p. -18 of the Poems, 
were left in the room where he slept. It was to Dr. 
Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, 
which my brotlier, in his letter to Dr. Moore, mentions 
as the reason of his going to Kdinburgh. 



When my father feued his little property near Alio- 
Way-Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had gone to 
ruin, and catlle had free liberty of pasturing in it. 
My father, with two or three other neighbours, joined 
in an application to the town council of Ayr, who were 
superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, 
and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this an- 
cient cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to consider 
it as his burial-place, and we learned that reverence 
for it people generally have for the burial-place of their 
ancestors. My brother was living in Kllisland, when 
Captain Grose, on his peregrinations through Scot- 
land, staid soine time at C'arsehouse, in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel, a 
particular friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian 
and the poet were " Unco pack and thick thegither." 
Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should 
come to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of 
Alloway-Kirk, as it was the burial-place of hi fattier, 
and where he himself had a sort of claim to lay down 
his jcnes when they should be no longer serviceable to 
him ; and added byway ot encouragement, that it was 
the scene of many a good story of witches and appari- 
tions, of which he knew the captain was very fond. 
The Captain agreed to the request, provided the poet 
would furnish a witch- toty, to be printed along with 
It. TaJn o' Sfian'er was produced on this occasion, 
and was first published in Grose's An.ijuiiies of Scot- 
land. 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. The 
leading circumstances of a man riding home very late 
from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing a hght in Al- 
loway-Kirk, his having the curiosity to look in, hia 



seeing a dance of witches, with the devil playing on tha 
bagpipe to them, the scanty covering of one of tbo 
witches, which made him so far forget himself, as to 
cry Weel loiipen, short sark /—with the melancholy 
catastrophe of the piece is all a true story, that can be 
II attested by many respectable old people in that 
neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstances re- 
specting the other poems that could be at all interest- 
ing ; even some of those 1 have mentioned, I am afraid 
may appear trifling enough, but you will only maka 
use of what appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh Edition, 
were not in that published in Kilmarnock. Death and 
Dr. Hornbook; ihe Brigs of Ayr; the Calf; (the 
poet had been with Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the mor- 
ning, who said jocularly to him when he was going to 
chu°ch, in allubion to the injunction of some parents 
to their children, that he must be sure to bring him a 
note of the sermon at mid-day : this address to the 
Reverend Gentleman oa his text was accordingly pro- 
duced.) Tiie Ordination; Tke Address to tlie Unco 
Quid; Tam Samson's Elegy ; A ^i'irder Ntghi; S an- 
zas oa the same occasion as tlie preceding Prayer; 
Verses left at a Reoermi Friend's House; The First 
Psalm; Prayer under the Pressure of violent An- 
guish ; the First Six Verses of tlie Ninelielh Psalm ; 
Verses to Miss L:tgan, with Beatlie's Poemi ; To a. 
Haggis; Address to Edinburgh; John Barleycorn; 
When Guilford Guid ; Behind yon hills where Slin- 
char flows; G reel grow the Hashes ; Again rejoicing 
Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; No Churchman t 
am. 

If you have never seen the first edition, it will, per- 
haps, not be amiss to transcribe the preface, that you 
may see the manner in which the poet inade his first 
awe-Btruck approach to the bar of public judgment. 

{Here followed the Preface as given in the first paga 
of the Poems.] 



I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

G LBERT BURNS. 
DR. CURRIE, Liverpool. 



To this history of the poems which are contained in 
this volume, it may be added, that our author appears 
to have made little alteration in them after their origi- 
nal composition, except in some few instances where 
considerable additions have been introduced. After 
he had attracted the notice of the public by his first 
edition, various criticisms were off"cred him on the pe- 
culiarities of his style, as well as of his sentiments ; 
and some of these, which remain among his manu- 
scripts, are by persons of gi-eat taste and judgment. 
Some few of these criticisms he adopted, but the far 
greater part he rejected; and, though semething haa 
by this means been lost in point of delicacy and correct- 
ness, yet a deeper impression is left of the strength and 
originality of his genius. The firmness of our poet - 
character, arising from a just confidence in his owa 
powers, may, in part, explain his tenaciouiness of his 
peculiar expressions ; but it may be in some degree 
accounted for also, by the circumstances under which 
the poems were composed. Burns did not, like men 
of genius born under happier auspice?, retire, in the 
moment of inspiration, to the silence and solitude of 
his study, and commit his verses to paper as they 
arranged themselves in his mind. Fortune did not 
afford' him this indulgence. It was during the toils of 
daily labour that his fancy exerted itself; the muse, as 
he himself informs us, found him at the plough. In this 
situation, it was necessary to fix his verses on his 
memory, and it was often many days, nay weeks, 
after a poem was finished, before it was written down. 
During all this time, by frequent repetition, the associa 
tion between the thought and the expression was con- 
firmed, and the impartiality of taste with which written 
language is reviewed and retouched after it hag faCtd 



152 



LETTERS. 



ou the memoiy, could nol in such instances be exerted. 
The original manuscripts ot many of his poeras are 
preserved, and they difler in no'.hins; material from the 
last printed edition. Some few variations may be 
noticed. 

1. In The Author's earnest Ci-y and Prayer after 
the stanza beginning, 

Erskine a spunkie, Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts, the fol- 
Jowitig: 

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

if Bardies e'er are represented t 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand ; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye'er at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh, is evidently the present Earl of Eg- 
lintonn, then iJolonel Montgomery of Coilsfield, and 
representing in parliament the county of Ayr. Why 
this was left out in printing does not appear. The 
noble earl will not be sorry to see this notice of him, 
familiar though it be, by a bard whose genius he admir- 
ed, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In T.>ie Address to the Deil, the second stanza ran 
origiually thus : 

Lang syne in Eden'.i happy scene. 
When strappin Adam's days was green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In The Elegy on poor Maillie, the stanza begin 
ning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows . 

She was na get o' runted rams, 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams ; 

She was the flower o' Fairlee lambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O' MaiUie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should lose the 
honor once intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in the poems 
introduced for the first time, in the edition of two 
Tolumes, s.nall octavo, published in 17b2. Of the poem 
toritten in Friar's-Carse Hermitage, there are seve- 
ral editions, and one of these has nothina: in common 
with the printed poem but the first four lines. The 
poem that is published, which was his second eflbrt on 
the subject, received considerable alterations in 
printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 

lamaniucript the following are inserted : 

S?y, the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their state, 
Is not. art thou high or low 7 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Wert thou cottager or king ? 
Prince or peasant? — no such thing, 

5. The Epistle to R. G. Esq. of F. that is. to R. 
Graham, Esq. of Fintra, also uuderv/ent considerable 
alterations, as niiy be collected from the General Cor- 
respondence. The style of [joetr^ was new to our 
poet, and, though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost 
turn more trouble than his Scottish poetry . Ou the 



contrary, Tatn o' Shanter seems to have issued perfeel 
rom the author's brain. The only considerable altera- 
tion madeon reflection, is the omission of fourUnes, 
Which had been inserted after the poem was finished, al 
the end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles found 
on the haly table," and which appeared in the first 
edition of the poem, printed separately— They canw 
alter the line, 

Which even to name would be unlawfu', 
and are as follows, 

Three lawyers' tongues tum'd inside out, 
W i' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout. 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinkingVile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other objections, 
interrupt and destroy the emotions ef terror which the 
preceding description had ezcited, were very properly 
left out ot the printed collection, by the advice of Mr. 
i raser Tytlt.- ; to which Burns seems to have paid 
mucii deference.* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thomson, began ia 
the fii-st manuscript copy ui the following manner : 

While cold eye'd Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mf.ntle sweet : 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet fur her youthful feet ; 
While Summer, with a matron's grace. 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And, oft delighted, loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
Whde Autumn, benefactor kind, 

VV ith age's hoaiy honours clad. 
Surveys with self -approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &c. 

Bv (lie alteration in the printed poem, it may be ques- 
tioned whetlier the poetry is much improved ; the poet 
however has found means to introduce the shadefi li 
Dryburgh, the residence of the Earl of Buchau, at 
whose request these verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, but what are 
already ofiered will satisfy curiosity, and there is no- 
thing of any importance that could be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Burnsf^ which contains some hints relative to tf,^ 
origin of his celebrated tale of " Tam o' Shanter," 
the Publishers trust, will be found interesting to 
every reader of his works. There appears no rea^ 
son to dmbt of its being genuine, though it has not 
been inserted in his correspondencee published by 
Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESa. F.A.S.f 

Amongthemany witch stories I have heard relating 
toAlloway kirk, I distinctly remember only two or 
three. 

* These four lines have been inadverter-tly replaced 
in the copy of Tam o' Shanter, published in the first 
volume of the " Poetry, Original and Selected," of 
Brash and Reid, of Glasgow ; and to this circumstance 
is owing their being noticed here. As our poet delibe- 
rately rejected them, it is hoped that no future printer 
will insert them. 

t This Letter was first published in the Censura Li' 
teraria, 17a6, and was communicated to the Editor of 
that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, accoonpdnied 

with the following reraai-k. 



LETTERS. 



153 



Dpon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, 
and bitter blasts of hail ; in short on such a night as 
the devil would chiise to talte the air in ; a farmer or 
farmer's servant was plodding and plashing homeward 
with his plough-irons on his shoulder, having been get- 
ting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smitliy. 
His way lay by the kiikof AUoway, and being rather 
on the anxious look out on approaching a place so well 
known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the dft- 
vil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by 
iliscovenng through the horrors of the storm and 
stormy night, a lightj which on his nearer approach 
plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
fice. Whether he had been fortified from above on his 
devout supplication, as is customary with people whea 
they suspect the immediate presence of Satan, or 
■whether, according to another custom, he had got 
courageously drunk at the smithy, 1 will not pretend to 
determine ; but so it was that he ventured to go up to, 
nay into the very kirk. As good luck would have it his 
temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto wei-e all out on 
Bome midnight business or other, and he saw nothing 
but a kind of kettle or caldon depending from the roof, 
over the fire, simmering some heads of uuchristened 
children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c. for the 
business of the night. — It was in for a penny, in for a 
pound, with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, and 
pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted it on 
his head, and carried it fairly home, where it remained 
long in the family, a living evidence' of the truth of the 
Blory. 

Another story which I can prove to be equally au- 
thentic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from 
Carrick, and consequently whose way laid by the very 
gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cress the river 
Donn at the old bridge, which is abo\a two or three 
hundred yards fatther on than the said gate, had been 
dL'tuiued'by his business, till by the time he reached 
Alluway it was the wizard hour, between night and 
morning. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from 
the kirk, yet as it is a well known fact that to turn back 
on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk 
of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When 
he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was sur- 
prised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of 

" In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the Anti- 
quary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, 1 
found the following letter written to him by Burns, 
when the former was ^dectiug the Antiquities of Scot- 
land. When 1 premia^ ii was on the second tradition 
that he afterwaids formed the inimitable tale of ' Tarn 
o' Shanter,' I cannot doubt of its i)eing read with great 
interest. It were ' bunung day light' to point out to 
a reader (and who is no', a readet of Burns?) the 
thoughts he afterwards transplanted into the rhythmi- 
cal narrative." O.G. 



an old Gothic window, which still faces the highway, 
to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their 
old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them 
all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer 
stopping his horsp to observe them a little, could plain- 
ly descry the facoS of many old women of his acquaint- 
ance and neighbourhood. Jrlow the gentleman was 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladies were all 
in their smocks : and one of them happening unluckily 
to have a smock which was considerably too short to 
answer all the purposes of that piece of dress, our I'ar- 
mer was so tickled, that he involuntai-ily burst out, 
with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen^Maggy wi' the short 
sark !" and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his 
horse to the top of his speed. 1 need not mention the 
universally known fact, that no diabolical power can 
pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream, 
iuucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon 
was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse , 
which was a good one, against he reached the middle 
of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle 
of the stream, the pursuing vengeful hags, were so 
close at his heels, that one of them actually sprung to 
seize him ; but it was too late, nothing was on her 
side of the stream but the horse's tail, which imme- 
diately gave way at her infernal gripe, as if blasted by 
a stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was beyond her 
reach. However, the unsightly, tailless condiiion of 
the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble 
creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrick far- 
mers, not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 

The last relation! shall give, though equally true, 
is not so well identified, as the two former, with regard 
to the scene ; but as the best authorities give it for Al- 
loway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that nature 
puts on her sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful 
day, a shepherd boy belonging to a 'farmer in the im- 
mediate neighboui-hoodof Alloway kirk, had just folded 
his charge," and was returning home. As he passed the 
kirk in the adjoining field, ha fell in with a crew of men 
and women who were busy pulling stems of the plant 
Ragwort. He observed that as each person pulled a 
Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, 
" up horsie !" on which the Ragwort flew off like Pe- 
gassus, through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
likewise pulled his Ragwort, and cried with the rest 
" up horsie !" and. strange to tell, away he flew with 
the company. The first stage at v;hich the cavalcade 
stopped was a merchant's wine cellar in Bourdeaux, 
where, without saying by your leave, they quj.fi'ed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, until the 
morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threat- 
ened to throw light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd iad, being equally a stranger to 
the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk : 
and when the rest took horse, he fell aslee)), and was 
found so next day by some of the people belonging to 
the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, ask- 
ing him what he was, he said he was sur.h-a-one's 
herd in Alloway, and by some means or ether getting 
home again, he lived long to tell the world the won- 
drous tale. 

1 am, &c. 



O 2 



APPEIVDTX. 



No. I.— Note A. See Life, p. 3. 

The Importance of the national establishment of 

parish-achooie in Scotland, will justify a short account 

of the legislative provisions respecting it, especially as 

the subject has escaped the notice of all the historians. 

By an act of the king (James Vlth) and privy coun- 
cil of the 10th of December, 1616, it was recommended 
to his bishops to deale and travel with the heritors 
(land proprietors) and the inhabitants of the respec- 
tive parishes in their respective dioceses, towaids the 
fixing upon " some certain, solid, and sure course" 
for settling and entertaining a school in each parish. 
This was ratified by a statute of Charles I. (the act 
1633, chap. 5.) which empowered the bishop, with the 
consent of the heritors of a parish, or of a majority of 
the inhabitants, if the heritors refused to attend the 
meeting, to a&sess every plough of land {that is. every 
farm in proportion to the number of ploughs upon it) 
with a certain sum for establishing a school. This 
was an ineffectual provision, as depending on the con- 
sent and pleasure of the heritors and inhabitants. 
Therefore a new order of things was introduced by 
Slal. 1646. chap. 17, which obliges the heritors and 
minister of each parish to meet and assess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building a school- 
house, and to elect a school-master, and modify a 
salary for him in all time to come. The salary is or- 
dered not to be under one hundred, nor above two 
hundred merks, that is, in our present sterling money, 
not under 51. lU. 1 I-2d. nor above \\l. 'is. 'id. and 
the assessment is to be laid on the land in the same 
proportion as it is rated for the support of the clergy, 
and as it regulates the payment of the land-tax. but 
in case the heritors of any parish, or tlie majority of 
them, sliould fail to discharge this duty, then the per- 
sons l^orming what is called the ComnuVee of Supply of 
the county (consisting of liie principal landholders) or 
any live of thfin, are autliorized by the statute to im- 
pose the asseBsmerit instead of them, on the repre- 
sentation of the presbytery in which the parish is situ- 
ated. To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the 
right of election by the heritors, by a statute passed in 
1693, c'laij. 22, is made subject to the review and con- 
trol of the presbytery of the district, who have the ex- 
amination of the person proposed committed to them, 
Iwth as to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to 
l.s I roper deportment in the office when settled in it. 
The election of the heritors is therefore only a pre- 
sentment of a person for the approbation of the pres- 
bytery ; who, if they find him unfit, may declare his 
incapacity, and thus oblige them to elect anew. So 
£ar U stated on unquestionable authority.* 

• The authority of A, Frazer Tytler, and David 
Hume, Esqrs. 



The legal salary of the school-master was not incon- 
siderable at the time it was fixed ; but by the decrease 
in the value of mt^ney, it is now cenanily inadequate 
to its object ; and it is painful to observe, that the 
landholders of Scotland resisted the humble apphca- 
tion of the school-masters to the legislature for its in- 
crease, a few years ago'. The number of parishes in 
Scotland is 877 ; and if we allow the salary of a school- 
master in each to be on an average, seven pounds 
sterling, the amount of the legal provision will be 
6, IBM. sterling. If we suppose the wages paid by the 
scholars to amount to twice the sum, which is proba- 
bly beyond the truth, the total of the expenses among 
1.526.49^ persons, (the whole population of Scotland,) 
of this most important establishment, will be 18,417/. 
But on this, as well as on other subjects respecting 
Scotland, accurate information may soon be expected 
from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, 
which will complete the immortal monument he has 
reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the instruction 
of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an act of the British 
parliament, 4 Geo. I. Chap. 6, it is enacted, "that 
of the money's arising from the sale of the Scottish 
estates forfeited in the rebelUon of 1715, 2000Z. sterling 
shall be converted into a capital stock, the interest of 
which shall be laid out in erecting and maintaining 
schools in the Highlands. The Society for propagating 
Christian Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have ap- 
plied a large part of their fund for the same purpose. 
By their report, Ist May, 1795, the annual sum em- 
ployed by them, in supporting their schools in the High- 
lands and Islands, was 3913/. 19s. 10c/., in which are 
taught the English language, reading and writing, and 
the principles of religion. The schools of the society 
are additional to the legal schools, which from the 
great extent of many of the Highland parishes, were 
found insufficient. Besides these established schools, 
the lower classes of peopls in Scotland, where the 
parishes are large, often combine together, and estab- 
lish private schools of their own, at one of which it was 
ihat Burns received the principal part of his education. 
So convinced uideed are the poor people of Scotland, 
by experience, of the benefit of instruction, to their 
children, that, though they may often find it difficult to 
feed and clothe them, some kind of school instruction 
they almost always procure them. 

The influence of the school-establishment of Scotland 
on the peasantry of that country, seems to have deci- 
ded by experience a question of legislation of the ut- 
most importance-'Whether a system of national in- 
struction for the poor be favourable to morals and 
good government. In the year 1698, Fletcher of Sa'.toa 
declared as follows : " There are at this day in Scot- 
land, two hundred thousand people begging from door 



156 



APPEXDIX, No. 



to door. And tlioiigh the numb«- of tliem be peihaps 
double to what H was furiiierly, by leasun of ihis 
pi-cseiil great distress, (a famine then prevailed.) yet in 
all times there have been about one hundred thousand 
of those vagabonds, who have lived without any re- 
gard or subjection either to the laws of ihe land, or 
even to those of God and Nature ; fathers incestuous- 
ly accompanying with their own daughters, the son 
with the mother, and the brother with the sister." He 
goes on to say that no magistrate ever could discover 
that they had ever been baptised, or in wliat way one 
in a hundred went out of tlie world. He accuses ihem 
as frequently guilty of robbery, and sometimes of mur- 
der : " Inyears of plenty," says he, " many thousands 
of men meet together in the mountains, where they 
feast and riot for many days ; and at country wed- 
dings, markets, burials, and other public occasions, 
they are to be seen, both men and women, perpetually 
drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and fighting together."* 
This highminded statesman, of whom it is said by a 
contemporary " that he would lose his life readily to 
eave his country, and would not do a base thing to 
serve it," thought the evil so gieat that he purposed as 
a remedy, the revival of domestic slavery, according 
to the practice of liis adored republics in the classic 
ages! A better remedy has been found, which iu the 
Bilent lapse of a century has proved eftecliial. The 
Statute of 169G, the noble legacy of tlie Scottish Parlia- 
ment to their country, began soon after this to ope- 
rate ; and happily, .is the minda of the poor received 
instruction, the Union opened new channels of in- 
dustry, and new fields of action to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps no country in 
Europe, in which, in proportion to its population, so 
small a number of crimes fall under the chastisement 
of the criminal law, as .Scotland. We have the best 
authority for asserting, that on an average of thirty 
years, preceding the year 1797, the executions in that 
division of the island did not amount to six annually : 
and one quarter-sessions for the town of Manchester 
only, has sent according to Mr. Hi-me, more felons to 
the plantations, than all the judges of Scotland usually 
do in the space of a year.t It might appear invidious 
to attempt a calculation of the many thousand indi- 
viduals in Manchester and its vicinity who can neither 
read nor write. A majority of those who can suffer 
the punishment of death for their crimes in every part 
of England are, it is believed, in this miserable slate 



There ,s now a legal provision for parochial schools, 
or rather for a school in each of the different townships 
into wliich the coiuitry is divided, in sever.il of the 
rorthern states of North America. They are, how- 
ever, of recent origin there, excepting in New England, 
where they were established in Ihe last century, pro- 
bably about the same time as in Scotland, and by the 
same religious sect. In the Protestant Cantons of 
Switzerland, the peasantry have the advantage of 
Bimilar schools, though established and endowed in a 
different manner. This is also the case in certain dis- 
tricts in England, particularly, in the northern parts of 
Yorkshire and of Lancashir-e, and in the counties of 
Westmoreland and Cumberland. 

A law, proTiding for the instruclinn of the poor, was 
passed by the Parliament of Ireland ; but the fond was 
divei-ted from its purpose, and the measure was enti.-e- 
ly frustr-aled. ProTi. Pudor. 

The similarity of characlor between the Swiss and 
the Scotch, and between the Scotch and the people of 
New England, can scarcely be overlooked. That it 
arises in a gi-eat measure from the similarily of their in- 
Btitutions for instruction, cannot be questioned. It is 
no doubt increased by pliysical causes. With a su- 
perior degree of instruction, each of these nations pos- 

* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo Lon- 
don, 737, 144. 

1 Hiune's Commentai-ies on the Laws of Scotland, 
introdiiclion, p. nO. 



sesses a country thai may be said to be sterile, in tbs 
neighbourhood of countries comparatively rich. Hence 
emigrations and the other effects on conduct and charac- 
ter which such circumstances naturally produce. Thli 
subject is in a high degree curious. The poirrts of dis- 
similarity between these nations might be traced to 
their causes also, and the whole investigation would 
pei-haps admit of an approach to certainty in our con 
elusions, to which such inquiries seldom lead. How 
much superior in morals, in intellect, and in happi- 
ness, the peasantry of those parts of England are who 
have opportunities of instrirction, to the same class in 
other situations, those who inquire into the subject 
will speedily discover. The peasantry of Westmoi-e- 
larrd, and of the other districts mentioned above, if 
their physical and moral qualities be taken together, 
are, in the opinion of the Editor, superior to the peas- 
antry of any part of the island. 

NoteB. See p. 3. 

It has been supposed that Scotland is less populous 
and less improved on account of this emigi-ation ; but 
auch conclusions are doubtful, if not wholly fallacious. 
The principle of population acts in no country to the 
full extent of its power: marriage is ever-y where re- 
tarded beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the 
diliiculty of supporting a family ; and this obstacle ia 
gi-eatest in long-settled communities. The emigraliou 
of a part of a people facilitates the marriage of the rest, 
by producing a relative increase in the means of sub- 
sistence. The arguments of Adam Smith, for a free 
export of corn, are per-liaps applicable with less excep- 
tion to the free export of peojile. The more certain the 
vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil. This sub- 
ject has been well investigated by Sir James Stewart, 
whose principles have b-en expanded and further 
illustrated in a late truly philosophical Essay on Popu- 
lation. In fact, Scotland has increased in the number 
of its inhabitants in the last forty years, as the Statis- 
tics of Sir John Sinclair cleai-ly prove, but not in the 
i-atio that some had supposed. The extent of the emi- 
gration of the Scots may be calculated with some de- 
gree of confidence from the proportionate number of 
the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that may be esta- 
blished pretty exactly by an examination of the invalu- 
able Statistics alr-eady mentioned. If we suppose that 
thes-e is an equal number of male and female natives of 
Scotland, alive somewhere or other, the excess by 
which the females exceed the males in their own coun- 
try, may be considered to be equal to the number of 
Scotchmen living out of Scotland. But though the 
males born in Scotland be admi'ted to be as 13 to 12, 
and though some of the females emigrate as well as the 
males, this mode of calculating would probably make 
the number of expatriated Scotchmen, at any one time 
alive, greater than the truth. The unhealthy climates 
into which they emigrate, the hazardous services in 
which so many of them engage, render the mean life of 
tho.se who leave Scotland (to speak in the language of 
calculators) not pei^haps of half the value of the mean 
life of those who remain. 

KoteC. See p. 6. 

In the punishment of this offence the Church employ, 
ed formerly the arm of the civil power. During tire 
reign of James the Vlth. (James the I'irst of England,) 
criminal conriexioa between unmarried persons was 
made the subject of a particular statute, (See Hume^a 
Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. p. 
332.) which, from its rigour, was never much enforced, 
and which has long fallen into disuse. When in the 
middle of the last century, the Puritans succeeded iu 
the over-throw of the monarchy in both divisions of the 
island, fornication was a crime against which they di- 
r-ected theU- utmost zeal. It was made punishabie 
with death in the second instance, {See Blackstone, b, 
iv. chap. 4. No. II.) Happily this sanguinary statute 
was Swept away along with the other acts of the Com. 
monwealth, on the i-estoration of Charles 11. to whoso 
temper and manners it must have been peculiarly ab- 
horre-ii. And after the Revolution, when several sal- 
utary act? passed during the suspension of the monar 
■. by, wtre iv-puarred by Ihe Scottish I arliament, par- 



APPENDIX, No. 2. 



157 



UculaHy that for the establishment of parish schools, 
the statute punishing fornication with death, was suffer- 
ed to sleep in the grave of the stern fanatics who had 
given it birtli. 

Note D. Seep. 6. 

The legitimation of children, by subsequent marriage 
became the Roman law under tiie Christian emperors. 
]t was the cannon law of modern Europe, and has been 
established in Scotland from a very remote period. 
Thus a child born a bastai d. if his parents afterwards 
marry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority over his 
brothers afterwards born in wedlock. In the Fatlia- 
ment of Merton, in the reign of Henry III. the English 
clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce this arti- 
cle into the law ot England, and ii was on this occasion 
that the Barons made the noted answer, since so often 
appealed to ; Quod nolunt leges Anglia; mutare ; 
quce hue vtsqueusitatce sunt approbatce. With regard 
to what constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, as 
explained, 73. 6. differs from the Roman law, which re- 
quired the cereraouy to be performed in facie ecclesice. 



Note A. See p. 12. 

It may interest some persons to peruse the first po- 
etical production of our Bard, and it is therefore ex- 
tracted from a kind of common place book, which he 
seems to have begun in his twentieth year ; and which 
he entitled, " Observations. Hints, Songs, Scraps of 
Poetry, Sfc. by Robert Eurness, a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of 
honesty and unbounded good will to every creature, ra- 
tional or irrational. As he was but little indebted to a 
scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- 
formances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolish- 
ed rustic way of life ; but as 1 believe '.hey are really 
liis own, it may be some entertainment .0 a curious ob- 
server of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks 
and feels under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, 
grief, with the like cares and passions, which however 
diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate 
pretty much alike, I believe, in all the species." 

" Pleasing when youth is long expired to trace, 
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd. 

Such was ''ur youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind." 

Shenstone. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed this ac- 
count of himself, and of his intention in preparing it, 
contains several of his earlier poems, some as they 
were printed, and others in their embryo stale. The 
»ong alluded to is that beginijing, • | 

once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 
Ay, and I love her still, 

See Poems, p. "79. 

It must be confessed that this song gives co indica- 
tion of the future genius of Burns ; but he himself 
seems to have been fond of it, probably from the recol- 
lections it excited. 



same page are notations very di»tanl from each other 
as to time and place. 



EXTEMPORE. April, 



O why the deuce should I repiae, 
And be an ill foreboder : 



See Poems, p. IS3 



FRAGMENT, Tune—' Donald Blue.' 

Cleave novels, ye Mauchline oelles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

See Poema, p. 141. 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun whith the stick and a' that. 

Mem. To get for Mr. Johnson these two songs :- 
' Molly, Molly, my dear honey.'—' The cock and tht 
hen, Vie deer in her den,' Ifc. 



Ah I Cloris ! Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, the au- 
thor.— A^ote, he married her— the heiress of Htferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of Down t/U 
bum Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

My apron Deary ! and Amynta, by Sir G, Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton Wag. was made on Walkin 
shaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

Iloe na a laddie but ane, Mr. Chmzee. 

The bonnie wee lAing-— beautiful— Z,undie's Dreamr-^ 
very beautiful. 

Hetdl't and shetiWt — assez bien. 

Armstrong's Farewell — fine. 

The author of the Highland Queen was a Mr. M'« 
Irer, Purser of the Solboy. 

Fife an' a' the land about it, R . Furgusson. 

The author of The bush aboon Traquair, wasra Dr. 
Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Captain John 
Drummond M'Grigor of Boclialdie. 

Mem. To inquire if Mrs. Cochburn was the autbor 
of I have seen the smiling, Sfc. 



Note B, See p. 15. 

At the time that our poet took the resolution of be- 
coming wise, he procured a Utile book of blank paper, 
with the purpose (expressed on the first page) of mak- 
ing farming memorandums upon it. These farming 
memorandums are curious enough ; many of them 
havebeenwritten with a pencil, and are now obliterat- 
ed, or at least illegible. A considerable number are 
however legible, and a specimen may gratify the rea- 
der. It must be premised, that the poet kept the bock 
by him several years — that he wrote upon it, here and 
tliere, with the utmost ir>-e£ularily, and that on the 



The above may serve as a specimen. All the note 
on farming are obliterated. 

Note C, See pageit 30, 31. 

Pules and Regulations to be observed in the Bacheltx 
Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every fo«rt 
Monday night, when a question on any subject shal 
be proposed, disputed points of religion, only excepted, 
in the manner hereafter diiected; which question it 
to be debated in the club, each member taking wha<' 
ever side he thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, he fail- 
ing, some one of the members, till he come, shall tak« 
his seat ; then the other members shall seat ihem 
selves ; those who are for one side ol the question, oi 
the president's right hand : and those who are for tlu 
other side, on his left; which of them shall have tin 
right hand is to be determined by the president. Tht 
president and four of the members being present, shaU 
have power to transact any ordinary part of the socie- 
ty's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president shall 
read the question out of the club's book of records, 
(which book is always to be kept by the president,) 
then the two members nearest the president shall cast 
lots who of them shall speak first, and according as 



.58 



APPENDIX, JNo. 2. 



the lot shall determine, the member nearest the pre- 
Biilent on that side shall deliver his opinion, and the 
member nearest on the other side shall reply to him ; 
tV;en the second member on the side that spoke first ; 
then the second member on the side that spoke second, 
and 80 on to the end of the company: but if there be 
fewer members on the one side than the other, when all 
the members of the .east side have spoken according to 
their places, any of them, as they please among them- 
selves, may reply to the remaining members of the op- 
posite side: when both sides have spoken, the president 
shall give his opinion, after which they may go over it 
a second or more times, and so coutiuue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the choice of a 
question for the subject of next night's meeting. The 
president shall first propose one, and any other mem- 
ber who chooses may propose more question* ; and 
whatever one of them is most agreeable to the majo- 
rity of members, shall be the subject of debate next 
• lub-uight. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new president for 
the next ineeiing : the president shall first name one, 
ihen any of the club may name another, and whoever 
of them has the majority of votes shall be duly elected ; 
allowing the president the first vote, and the casting 
vote upon a par, but none other. Then after a general 
toast to mistresses of the club, they shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversation carried 
on during the time of debate, nor shall any member In- 
tel rupt anotliei while he is speaking, under the penalty 
of a reprim&nd from the president for the first fault, 
doL-hling his share of the reckoning for the second, 
trebUng it for the third, and so on in proportion for every 
other fault, provided always, however, that any mem- 
ber may speak at any time after leave asked, and given 
by the president. All swearing and profane language, 
and particularly all obscene and indecent conversa- 
tion, is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty as 
afoiesaid in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, shall 
mention any of the club's' affairs to any other person 
but a brother member, under the pain of being exclud- 
ed ; and particularly if any member shall reveal any 
of Ihe speeches or aflairs of the club, with a view to 
riilicule or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
shall be forever excommunicated from the society; 
hud the rest of the members are desired, as much as 
possible, to avoid, and have uo communicatioa with 
him as a friend or comi-ade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meetings.with- 
oul he can give a proper excuse for not attending ; 
ajid it is desired that every one who cannot attend, 
will send his excuse with some other member ; and he 
who shall be absent three meetings without sending 
«och excuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, 
when if he fail to appear, or send au excuse he shall oe 
excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than sixteen 
members, all bachelors belonging to the parish of Tar- 
boliou: except a brother member marry, and in that case 
he may be continued, if the majority of the club think 
proper. No person shall be admitted a member of this 
society, without the unanimous consent of the club; 
andanvmember may withdraw from ihe chib ahoge- 
ther, by giving a notice to the president in writing of 
his departure. 

10th. Every man proper for a member of this society, 
must have a frank, honest, open heart ; above any 
thing diriy or mean : and must be a profcsl lover of 
one or more of the female sex. No haughty, self-con- 
ceited person, who looks upon himself as superior to 
thi rest of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, 
■woriilly mortal, whose only will is to heap up money, 
shall upon any pretence whatever be admitted. In 
•hort, the proper person for this society is, a cheerful, 
honest hearted lad, v.'ho, if he has a friend that is 
true, and a mistiess that is kind, and as mutli wealth 



as genteelly to make both er-t'is meet— is just ai happy 
as this world can make him . 



NoteD. See p. 84. 

A great number of manuscript poems were found 
among the papers of Burns, addressed to him by ad- 
mirers of his genius, from different parts of Hritaia, 
as well as from Ireland and America. Among these 
was a poetical epistle from Mr. Telford, of Shrews- 
bury, of superior merit. It is wiitten in the dialect 
of .'■cotland, (of which country Mr. Telford is a native,) 
and in the versification generally employed by our poet 
himself. Its object is to recommend to him other sub- 
ject of a serious nature, similar to that of the Cotier'x 
Saturday Nizht ; and the reader will find thit the 
advice is happily enforced by example. It would have 
given the editor pleasure to have inserted the whole of 
this poem, which he hopes will one day see the light : 
he is happy to have obtained, in the mean time, his 
friend Mr. Telford's permission to insert the following 
extracts ; 



Pursue, Burns ! thy happy style 
*' Those manner-painting strains," that while 
They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless'd my young ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
I see our greeu hills touch the skies. 

And through the wood*. 
I hear the river's rushing noise, 

Its roaring floods.* 

No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow. 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

Than still iiave mine^ 
When up this ancient mountf I go, 

With songs of thine. 

O happy Bard I thy gen'rous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's fame : 
For this thy charming numbers came— 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing, and save her virtuous name. 

To latest days. 

But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thy sou! infuse. 

With holy air ; 
And shig the course the pious choose, 
With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impressed, 
They open lay the guileless breast, 
And youth and age with fears distress'd, 

All due prepare. 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share.J 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 

Successive crowds the valleys fill ; 

While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 

And gives a cas* to youthful will, 

To suit the day. 

« The banks of Esk, in Dumfries-shire, are here al« 
luded to. 

t A beautiful little mount, which stands immediate- 
ly before, or rather forms a part of Shrewsbury castle, 
a seat of Sir William Pulteney, baronet. 

I The Sacrament, generally administered In the 
country parishes of Scotland in the open air. E, 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



159 



How placed along the saciwi board, 
Their hoary pastor's looks adored, -- 
Hii voice witli peace and blessing stored, 

feeut from above ; 
And faith, aud hope, and joy aflord, 

Aud bounuless love. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
And whisper'd hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below, 
Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow ; 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 
In silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
(By turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path. 
Where nei'bours saw in dusky air,t 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how, 
Where binwood Dushes o'er them flow, 
Aud move around the rising knuwe, 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their gray locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the iave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear ; 
One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return. 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of liim ihey mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to ih' untainted thought. 

The shepherd boy. 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height, 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On sabbath morn and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 
Before his God — 
Such pray'ra must welcome reach the throne, 
And bless'd abode. 

O tell I with what a heart felt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ. 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy, 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite. 
And lead him on to count and write. 

Demand thy care; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 

Without a share. 

* A Scotch funeral. E, 

f This alludes to a superstition prevalent In Eskdale, 
./id Annandale, that a light precedes in the night every 
iineral, raarking the precise path it ii to pass. E. 



Nor yet the tenty curious lad. 
Who e'er the ingle hings his head. 
And begs of nei'bours books to read [ 

From hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Bailh bauld and wise. 



The bonnie lasses, as they spin. 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin. 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Througli flowery hows ; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts wJtt 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be. Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join, 
To bless the hard, who, gay or sage. 
Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms warm to latest days. 
And ay improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow. 
O'er woods o'er streams, o'er hills of snow, 
May rugged rocks still dearer grow ; 
And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 
The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these. 
And all their happy manners seize. 
Will every virtuous bosom please ; 

And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay. 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray-- 
The noisome vermin of a day. 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 
A lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains. 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Still teach the rising youth thy strains 

And anxious say. 
Our blessing with our sons remains. 

And Burus's Lay I 



No. III. 

(First inserted in the Second Edition.) 

The ediior has particular pleasure in presenting to 
the public the following letter, to the due understana- 
ing of which a few previous observations are ne- 
cessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was naturally desirous 
of hearing the opinon of the friend and brother of the 
poet, on the manner in which he had executed his 
task, before a second edition should be committed to 
the press. He had the satisfaction of receiving this 
opinion, in a letter dated the 2-lth of August, approv- 
ing of the Life in very obliging terms, and ofl'ering 
one or two trivial corrections as to names and dates 
chiefly, which are made in this edition. One or two 
observations were offered of a different kind. In the 
3l9th page of the first volume, first edition, a quota- 
lion is made from the pastoral song, Ettrick Banks, 
and an explanation given of the phrase " mony feck," 
wiiich occurs in this quotation. Supposing the sense 
to he complete after " mony," the editor had consider 
ed " feek" a rustick oath which confirmed the asser* 
tion. The words wers therefore separated by a com- 



60 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



ma. Mr. Bums considered this an error. " Feck," 
he presumes, is the Scottish word for quantity, and 
" mony feck," to mean simply, very many, 'fhe 
editor in yieldi'ig to this autliority, expressed some 
hesitation, and hinted tliat the phrase "mony feck" 
was, iu Burn's sense, a pleonasm or barbarism which 
deformed this beautiful song.* His reply to this 
obser»ation makes the first clause tJf the following 
letter. 

In the same communication he iaformed me, that the 
Mirror and the Lounger were proposed by hira to the 
Conversation Club of Mauchhno, and that he liad 
thoughis oi giving me his sentiments on the remarks I 
had made respectmg the fitness of such works for such 
societies. '1 he observations of such a man on such a 
Bj'^iect, the Kditor conceived, would be received with 
parii:"!ar interest by the public ; and, having pressed 
earuesily for them, they will be found in the following 
letter. Of the value of this communication, delicacy 
towards his very respectable correspondent prevents 
him from expressing his opinion. '1 he original letter 
,'8 in the hands of Messrs.-Caddell andDavies. 

Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct. 1800. 

IDEAR SIR, 

Yours of the I7th inst. came to my hand ye3terda7, 
and I sit down this afternoon to write you iu return : 
but when 1 shall be able to finish all 1 wish to say to 
you, 1 cannot tell. 1 am sorry your conviction is not 
complete respecting feck. There is no doubt, that if 
you take two English words which appear synony- 
mous to mony feck, and judge by the rules of Enghsh 
construction, it will appear a barbarism. 1 believe if 
you take this mode of translating from any language, 
the effect will frequently be the same. But if you take 
the expression jnony feck to have, as I have stated it, 
the same meaning with the English expression very 
many, (and such license every translator must be al- 
lowed, especially when he translates from a simple 
dialect which has never been subjected to rule, and 
where the precise meaning of words is of consequence 
not minutely attended to Jit will be well enough. One 
thing I am certain of, that ours is the sense universal- 
ly understood in the country ; and I believe no Scots- 
man, who has lived contented at home, pleased with 
the simple manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- 
ple dialect of his native country, unviliated by foreign 
intercourse, " whose soul proud science never taught 
to stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song of 
Eurick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my father's 
house falling down, is simply as follows :t--When my 
father built his " clay biggin," he put in two stone- 
jambs, as they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
chimney in hi's clay gable. The consequence was, that 
as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy morning, 
when my brother was nine or ten days old, a little 
before daylight a part of the gable fell out, and the rest 
appeared'so shuttered, that my mother, with the young 
poet, had to be carried through the storm to a neigh- 
bours house, where they remained a week till their 
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not think 
loo meanly of this house, or my father's taste in build- 
ing, by supposing the poet's description in The 'Asian 
(which is entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, 
allow me to take notice to you, that the house consist- 
ed of a kitchen iu one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire place and chimney ; that my fathe- had 
constructed a concealed bed iu the kitchen, with a 

• The correction made by Gilbert Burns has also 
beea suggested by a writer in the ^lonthly Magazine, 
onder the signature of Albion ; who, for taking this 
trouble, and for mentioning the author of the poem of 
Donnoeht-head deserves the Editor's thanks. 

• The Editor had heard a report that the poet was 
born in the midst of a storm which blew down a part 
Oi the house. E 



small closet at the end, of the same materials with 0.8 
house ; and, when altogether cast over, outside and in, 
with lime, it had a neat comfortable appearance, such 
as no family of the same rank, in the present improved 
style of living, would think theniseWes ill-iodged in. 
1 wish likewise to take notice, in passing, that although 
the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy 
of my father in his manners, his family-devotion, and 
exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do 
not apply to our family. None of us were ever "at 
service out amaug the neebors roun." Instead of our 
depositing our '' sairwon penny fee" with our parents, 
my father laboured hard, and lived with the most ri- 
gid economy , that he might be able to keep his children 
at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching 
the progress of our young minds and forming in them 
earlier habits of piety and virtue ; and from this mo- 
tive alone did he engage in farming, the source of all 
his difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a long letter 
on the subject of the books 1 recommended to the 
Mauchline club, and the eCects of refinement of taste 
on the labouring classes of men, I meant merely, that 
I wished to write you on that subject with a vi6w that, 
in some future cummunication to the public, you might 
take up the subject more at large ; that, by means of 
your happy manner of writing, the attention of people 
of power and influence might be fixed on it. I had Ut- 
t.'e expectation, however, that I should ovei come my 
indolence, and the diSicully of arranging my thoughts 
so far as to put my threat in execution ; till some time 
ago, before 1 had finished my harvest, having a call 
from Mr. Ewart,* with a message from you, pressing 
me to the performance of this task, 1 thought myself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set about 
it with my first leisure. I will now, therefore, endea- 
vour to lay before you what has occurred to my mind, 
on a subject where people capable of observation and 
of placing their remarks in a proper point of view, 
have seldom an opportunity of making their remarks 
on real hfe. In doing this, 1 may perhaps be led some- 
times to write mere in the manner of a person commu- 
nicating information to you which you did not know 
before, and at other times more in the style of egotism, 
than I would choose to do to any person, in whose can- 
dour, and even personal good will, 1 had less confi- 
dence. 

There are two several lines of study that open to 
every man as he enters life : the one, the general sci- 
ence of life, of duty, and of happiness ; the other, the 
particular arts of his employment or situation in so- 
ciety, and the several branches of knowledge there 
with connected. 'J'his last is certainly uidispensable, 
as nothing can be more disgraceful than ignorance in 
the way of one's own profession ; and whatever a 
man's speculative knowledge may be, if he is ill-in- 
formed there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
able member of society. It is nevertheless true, that 
" the proper study of mankind is man:" to consider 
what duties are incumbent on hira as a rational crea- 
ture, and a member of society ; how he may increase 
or secure his happiness : and how he may prevent or 
soften the many miseries incident to human lite. I 
think the pursuit of happpiness is too frequently con- 
fined to the endeavoui after the acquisition of wealth. 
1 do not wish to be considered as an idle declaimer 
against riches, which, after all that can be said against 
them, will still be considered by men of common sense 
as objects of importance ; and poverty will be felt as 
a sore evil, after all the fine thiugs that can be said of 
its advantages ; on the contrary 1 am of opinion, tha» 
a great proportion of the miseries of life arise from 
the want of economy, and a prudent attention to mo- 
ney, or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit of it. 
But however valuable riches may be as the means cf 
comfort, independence, and the pleasure of doing good 
to others, yet 1 am of opinion, that they may be, and 
frequently are, purchased at too great a cost, and that 
sacrifices are made in the pursuit, which the acquisi- 
tion cannot compensate. 1 remember hearing my 

• The Editor's friend, Mr. Peter Ewart, of Manche»- 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



161 



worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an anecdote to 
my father, which I think sets this matter in a strong 
light, and perhaps was the origin, or at least tended to 
promote this way of thinking in me. When Mr. Mur- 
doch left Alloway, he went to teach and reside in the 
family of an opulent farmer who had a number of sons. 
A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of conver- 
Bation, asked the father how he meant to dispose of his 
sons. 'I'he father replied that he had not determined. 
The visitor said, that were he in his place he would 
give them all good education and send them abroad, 
without (perhaps) having a precise idea wliere. The 
father objected, that many young men lost their health 
in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, re- 
plied the visitor, but as you have a number of sons, it 
will be strange if some one of them does not live and 
make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a father, 
comment on this story ; but though few will avow, 
even to themselves, that such views govern their con- 
duct, yet do we not daily see people shipping oft' their 
sons, (and who would do so by their daughters also, 
if there were any demand for them,) that they may be 
rich or perish 1 

The education of the lower classes is seldom con- 
eidered in any other point of view than as the means 
of raising them from that station to which they were 
born, and of making a fortune. I am ignorant of the 
mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune without 
any thing to begin with : and cannot calculate, with 
any degree of exactness, the difficulties to be surmount- 
ed, the mortifications to be suftered, and the degrada- 
tion of character to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices, or in the 
practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, 
in the progress: but even when the wished for end is 
attained, it may be questioned whether happiness be 
much increased by the change. When I have seen a 
fortunate adventurer of the lower ranks of life return- 
ed from the East or West Indies, with all the hautein 
of a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, 
assuming a character which, from the early habiis of 
life, he is ill-fitted to support, displaying magnificence 
which raises the envy of some, and the contempt of 
others, claiming an equality with the great, which 
they are unwilling to allow ; inly pining at the prece- 
dence of the hereditary gentry ; maddened by the po- 
lished insolence of some of the unworthy part of them ; 
eeeking pleasure in the society of men who can conde- 
scend to flatter him, and listen to his absurdity for the 
sake of a good dinner and good wine : I cannot avoid 
concluding, that his brother, or companion, who, by a 
diligent application to the labours of agriculture, or 
some useful mechanic employment, and the careful 
husbanding of his gains, has acquired a competence in 
his stadon, is a much happier, and, in the eye of a 
person who can take an enlarged view of mankind, a 
much more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be considered as a 
great number of candidates striving for a few prizes : 
and whatever addition the successful may make to 
their pleasure or happiness, the disappointed will al- 
ways have more to suffer, I am afraid, than those who 
abide contented in the station to which they were born. 
I wish, therefore, the education of the lower 
classes to be promoted and directed to their improve- 
ment as men, as the means of increasing theii virtue. 
and opening to them new and dignified sources of 
pleasuie and happiness. I have heard some people 
object to the •■ducation of the lower classes of men, as 
rendering them less useful, by abstracting them from 
their proper business ; others, as tending to make 
them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their con- 
dition, and turbulent subjects ; while you, with more 
humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy 
of mind, induced by that sort of education and read- 
ing 1 recommend, should render the evils of their situ- 
ation insupportable to them. I wish to examine the 
validity of each of these objections, beginning with 
the one you have mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of my 
favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, although I 



understand there are people who think themselvet 
judges, who do not agree with you. The acquisilion 
ofknowledge, except what is connected with hu-nan 
life and conduct, or the particular business of iiis em- 
ployment, does not appear to me to be the fittest pui^ 
suit for a peasant. I would say with the poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is art 

Save when it guides the life, and mends the heart," 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in the use 
of th^ word taste. I understand it to be the percep- 
tion and relish of beauty, order, or any thing, the con- 
templation of which gives pleasure and "delight to 
the mind. I suf xiose it is in this sense you wish it to 
be understood, if i am right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivate, (besides the taste 
for fine writing, which many of the papers tend to im- 
prove and to gratify,) is what is proper, consistent, 
and becoming in human character and conduct, as al- 
most every paper relates to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me, that I 
might point out some instances. 1 remember two, one 
the beautiful story of La Roch, where, beside the 
pleasure one derives from a beautiful simple story, 
told in M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 
to taste with heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be 
derived in deep affliction, from habituaJ devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. The other, the story of gen- 
eral W , when the reader is led to have a high 

relish for that firmness of mind which disregar.is ap- 
pearances, the common forms and vanities of life, for 
the sake of doing justice in a case which was out of 
the reach of human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the morality of 
these books is subordinate to the cultivation of taste : 
that taste, that refinement of mind and delicacy of 
sentiment which they are intended to give, are the 
strongest guard and surest foundation of morality and 

le. — Other moralists guard, as it were, the over- 
act : these papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, 

;alculated to make every deviation from rectitude 
and propriety of conduct, pauiful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers. 
Refine at length, and every passion wears, 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mein." 

I readily grant you, that the refinement of rwind 
which 1 contend for, increases our sensibility to the 
evils of life! but what station of life is without its evils I 
There seems to be no such thing as perfect happiness 

this world, and we must balance the pleasure and 
the pain which we derive from taste, before we can 
projierly appreciate it in the case before us. I appre- 
hend that on a minute examination it will appear, that 
the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of life, derive their 
power to wound us, more from the suggestions of false 
pride, and " contagion of luxury, weak and vile," 
than the refinement of our taste. It was a favourite 
irk of my brother's, that there was no part of the 
constitution of our nature, to which we were more 
indebted, than that by which" Cuslom makes things 
familiar ani easy" (a. copy Mr. Murdoch used to set 
us to write ) and there is little labour which custom 
will not make easy to a man in health, if he is not 
ashamed of his employment, or does not begin to 
compare his situation with those he may see going 
about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the respect due 
to him as a man ; he has learned that no employment 
is dishonourable in itself; that while he performs 
aright the duties of that station in which (iod has 
placed him, he is as great as a king in the eyes of Him 
whom he is principally desirous to please ; for the man 
of taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must of 
necessity be religious, if you teach him only to rea- 
son, you may make him an atheist, a demagogue, or 
any vile thing ; but if you teach him to feel, his feel- 
ings can only find their proper and natural relief in de- 
votion and religious resignation. He knows that those 
people who are to appearance at ease, are not vrilhoi»t 



162 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



their share of evils, and that even toil itself is not des- 
titute of advantages. He listens to the words of his fa- 
vourite poet : 

" O mortal man that livest hereby toil, 

Cease to repine, and grudge thy hard estate 1 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it malies thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early drudge, and late ; 

Witlinuten tliat would come an heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale V 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful recol- 
tion comes across his mind, how cilen has he derived 
ineffable pleasure from the sweet song of " Nature's 
darling cliild." 1 can say, from my own experience, 
that there is no sort of farm-labour inconsistent with 
the most refined and pleasurable state of the mind 
that 1 am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
That, indeed, I have always considered as insupporta- 
ble drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic who 
invented the threshing njachine, ought to have a statue 
among llie benefactors of his country, and should be 
placed in the niche next to the person who introduced 
the culture of potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance In the educa- 
tion of the common people is, to prevent the intrusion 
of artificial wants. I bless the memory of my worthy 
father for almost every thing in the dispositions of my 
mir.d, and my habits of life, which I can approve of : 
and for none more than the pains he took to impress 
my mind with the sentiment, that nothing was moie 
unworthy the character of a man, than that his happi- 
uess should in the least depend on what he should eat 
or drink. So early did he impress my mind with this, 
that although 1 was as fond of swealmeats as children 
generally are, yet 1 seldom laid out any of the half- 
pence which relations or neighbours gave me at fairs, 
iu the purchase of them ; and if 1 did, every mouthful 
I swallowed was accompanied w "th shame and re 
morse ; and to this hour, I never indulge iu the use of 
*ny delicacy, but I feel a considerable degree of self- 
"eproach and alarm for the degradation of the human 
character. Such a habit of thinking I consider as of 
great consequence, both to the virtue and happiness 
of men in the lower ranks of life.— And thus, Sir, I 
am of opinion, that if their minds are early impressed 
with a sense of the dignity of man, as such; with the 
lo7e of independence and of industry, economy and 
temperance, as the most obvious means of making 
themselves independent, and the virtues most becom- 
ing their situation, and necessary to their happiness ; 
men in the lower ranks of life may partake of the 
pleasures to be derived from the perusal of books cal- 
culated to improve the mind and and refine the ta;te, 
without any danger of becoming more unhappy in their 
situation or discontented with it. Nor do I think there 
is any danger of their becoming less useful. There 
are some hours every day that the most constant la- 
bourer is neither at work nor asleep. These hours are 
either appropriated to amusement or to sloth. If a 
taste for employing these hours in reading were culti- 
vated, I do not suppose that the return to labour 
Would be more difficult. Every one will allow, that 
the attachment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, 
has as powerful a tendency to abstract men from their 
proper business, as the attachment to books ; while 
the one dissipates the mind, and the other tends to 
increase its powers of self-government. 

To those who are afraid that the improvement of 
the minds of the common people might be dangerous 
to the state, or the established order of society, 1 would 
remark, that turbulence and commotion are certainly 
very inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let 
the matter oe brought to the test of experience snd 
observation. Of what description of people are mobs 
ana insurrections composed 7 Are they not universal- 
ly owing to the want of enlargement and improvement 
of mind among the common people ! Nay, let any 
one recollect the characters of those who formed the 
caJmer £::d more deliberate associations, which lately 
gave to much alarm to the government of this country. 



I suppose few of the common people who were to bl 
found in such societies, had the education and turn << 
mind I have been endeavouring to recommend. Alluv 
me to suggest one reason for endeavouring to enlighiea 
the minds of the common people. Their morals have 
hitherto been guarded by a sort of dim religious awe. 
which from a variety of causes, seems wearing off. I 
think the alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
short period of my observation. I have already given 
my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on 
morals and virtue. Whenever vnlgar minds begin to 
shake off the dogmas of the religion in which they 
have been educated, the progress is quick and imme- 
diate to downright infidehty ; and nothing but refine- 
ment of mind can enable them to distiiiguish between 
the pure essence of religion, and the gross systems 
which men have been perpetually connecting it with. 
In addition to what has already been done for the 
education of the common people of this country, in the 
establishment of parish schools, 1 wish to see the sala- 
ries augmented iu some proportion to the present ex- 
pense of living, and the earnings of people of similar 
rank, endowments and usefulness in society ; and I 
hope that the Uberality of the present age will be no 
longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of 
men, such encouragement as may make parish schools 
worth the attention of men fitted for tlie important 
duties of that office. In filling up the vacancies, I 
would have moi-e attention paid to the candidate's 
capacity of reading tlie EngUsh language with graca 
and propriety ; to his understanding thoroughly, and 
having a high relish for the beauties of English authors, 
both in poetry and prose ; to that good sense and 
knowledge of human natuie which would enable him 
to acquire some influence on the minds and affections 
of his scholars ; to the general worth of his character, 
and the love of his king and his country, than to his 
proficiency in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
would then have a sort of high English class establish- 
ed, not only lor the purpose of teaching the pupils to 
read in that graceful and agreeable manner that might 
make them fond of reading, but to make them under- 
stand what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I would have 
established in every parish, a small circulating library, 
consisting of the books which the young people had 
read extracts from iu the collections they had read at 
school, and any other books well calculated to refine 
the mind, improve the moral feelings, recommend the 
practice of virtue, and communicate such knowledge 
as might he useful and suitable to the labouring class- 
es of men. 1 would have the school-master act as 
librarian, and in recommending books to his young 
friends, formerly his pupils, and letting in the light of 
them upon their young minds, he should have the as- 
sistance of the minister. If once such education were 
become general, the low dehghts of the pubhc house, 
and otlier scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- 
temned and neglected ; while industry, order, cleanli- 
ness, and every virtue which taste and independence 
of mind could I'ecomraend, would prevail and flourish. 
Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened populace, 
with high delight I should consider my native country 
as the head of all the nations of the earth, ancient or 
modero. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the fullest 
extent, in regard to the length of my letter. If 1 had 
not presumed on doing it iiiore to my Uking, I should 
no*, have undertaken it ; but I have not time to at- 
tempt it anew ; nor, if 1 would, am 1 certain that I 
should succeed any better. I have learned to have 
less confidence in my capacity of writing on such 
subjects. 

I am much obliged by you Wnd inquiries abonl my 
situation and prospects. 'lani much pleased with the 
soil of this farm, and with the terms on which I pos- 
sess it. I receive great encouragement likewise in 
building, enclosing, and other conveniences, from my 
landlord, Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general charac* 
ter and conduct, as a landlord and country gentlemaa, 
1 am highly pleased with. But the land is in such a 
slate as to require a considerable immediate ontUy 
of mone.y in the purchase of manure, the grubbing ot 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



163 



Dmsli-wood, removing of stones, &c. which twelve 
yeare' struggle w;ih a farm of a cold ungrateful soil 
has but ill prepared me for. If I can get these things 
done, however, to my mind, I think there is next to a 
certahity lliat in five or six years I shall be in a hope- 
ful way of attaining a situation which I think as eligi- 
ble for happiness as any one 1 know ; for I have al- 
ways been of opinion, that if a man bred to the habits 
of a farming life, who possesses a farm of good soil, on 
Buch terms as enables him easily to pay all demands, 
is not happy, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
hi« siluaiioi: for the causes of his uneasiness. 

1 beg you will present my most respectful compli- 



ments *.o Mrs. Currle, and remember me to Mr. and 
Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe, junior, whose kind at- 
tentions to me, when in Liverpool, 1 shall never forget. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, and 

Mu«h obliged, humble Servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 

To James Currie, M. D. F. R. S. > 
LioerpooU $ 



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